


Beyond The Pale

by JonTheNord



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crimes & Criminals, Espionage, Pirates, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-03-11 12:11:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 97,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3326834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JonTheNord/pseuds/JonTheNord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prior to the events that would eventually lead to the Skyrim Civil War, Ulfric Stormcloak is already at odds with the Imperial rule, and thus with the High King Torygg. He has raised his own personal army, the Stormcloaks, and many fear what he will try to do next. </p>
<p>Janus Castorius—a self-serving voluptuary and an imperial soldier of dubious loyalties—not entirely without a fault of his own gets pulled into a game of subterfuge between the two factions, and subsequently also finds himself tangled in a plot of underworld miscreants seeking to profit from the uncertain political atmosphere.</p>
<p>And all he ever wanted was a good meal and a warm bed!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Man of Two Masters

It was just going to be one of those days.

It took some considerable effort to stifle a yawn, but Janus Castorius' conditioning stopped him from giving in to the temptation to just let it come—not when he was standing at attention. His eye caught a young, pretty girl with thick chestnut hair standing among the gathering crowd, and he found himself inadvertently smiling at her. The girl met his gaze but quickly looked away, doubtless afraid to let her eyes linger on a man of his position.

Castorius sighed quietly. He was not used to being regarded in that fashion.

The morning had broken sunny and clear, and looked to turn out precisely how he generally liked them. A clear sky loomed above, and the balmy summer breeze gently tousled his curly flaxen hair. Had he been free to pick his present conditions, he would have doubtless chosen to start the day slow, waking early yet lingering in bed for a good long while. Perhaps, if he'd had company, he would've gone for a little tussle, or, if he were by himself, enjoyed the simple pleasure of stretching his long limbs on the comfy bed, letting the sleep of the night slowly ebb away until finally rising to do some exercises.

Then he would saunter off to the kitchen and break his fast with perhaps some fresh bacon—fried crispy—accompanied by a couple of fried eggs—sunny side up or perhaps just over easy—before he would embark outdoors on a leisurely walk in the fresh mountain air.

By no means were those typical conditions for a man of his profession, but Castorius had learned long ago that a man's own will and determination to forward his own position made all the difference in the world as to where in it, and in what sort of position, he'd find himself. A man simply had to take what he rightfully knew belonged to him, and take whatever risk needed to accomplish that—an attitude which, Castorius could testify, demanded the sufficient strength of nature to accept the possibility of coming up with zero in the aftermath.

And yet he had never considered himself a gambling man.

All the same, as it was, he'd not had those kinds of luxuries today, but had instead been torn up from his hard bed all too early in the cold, artless confines of The Castle Dour—an apt name if there ever was one—and for his breakfast had had to settle for some gray slop of a porridge, more water than it was grain, and a measly piece of stale bread—the kind of feed all too familiar to anyone like himself, serving in the Imperial armed forces.

The morning's program wasn't particularly to his liking, either. He found these barbaric assemblages distasteful—to put the matter diplomatically—and though they aroused his earnest disdain at the best of times, it was today's proceedings in particular that really threatened to cramp his style.

Castorius sighed, more loudly this time. He stood in a stern pose, hands behind his back, and surveyed the plebs slowly gathering in the plaza. All of them eager for a reminder of their own mortality, no doubt, while at the same time reveling in the sweet comfort of the fact that today was not their turn. One needed, Castorius supposed, the occasional evidence of the misery of others as reminder of one's own fortune.

Such as it was.

The expression he wore conformed to the last detail to the polished professional countenance of soldierly wariness, but in his case it contained a fair sprinkle of genuine misgiving as well. He switched his attention from the loathsome throng to the comrades in arms standing around him, hands similarly tugged behind them and, like him, their faces seasoned with grim. He caught the eye of Roggvir, perhaps his best friend in Solitude, who quickly averted his gaze. This was no moment for a show of camaraderie, it seemed.

Soon the audience was looking like a full assembly; faces at once curious, eager, and somewhat fearful all around. Armed imperial soldiers stood around at the sidelines, keeping order, eyeing the crowd with assertive suspicion. The steel shield of one them caught the light of the morning sun crept up low in the eastern sky, and reflected it straight into Castorius' eyes, forcing him to squint. He wished he could have just freed his hand to block the nuisance, but kept his pose as rigid as ever. In this he was well practiced.

Captain Aldis, the Guard Captain of the city guard, stood to his left, his cheek muscles clenched underneath the thick, dark beard. Now there was a man Castorius both admired and hated. Admired him for his firm resolution, the tendency and ability to do what he thought right, to choose his path and follow it until the end, never backing down or flinching. As it happened, those were exactly the same qualities Castorius could not stand about the man. Talk about pig-headed stubbornness, complete inability to judge each situation by its own measure, and change approaches accordingly. For Castorius himself, were it not for his uncanny ability to pick a course according to need and to assume a different approach each time the rules of the game changed, he would have never achieved the things that he had.

For better or for worse.

It did not help that Aldis was quite easy on the eye, what with his ruggedly even features, strong jaw, and eyes of firm determination spiced with a sort of sensitive intelligence; and though his own appearance was not exactly prone to scare away small children either, Castorius nonetheless found himself envying the man's good looks.

By contrast, the man standing next to Aldis might have descended headlong all the way from the top of The Throat of the World, the tallest mountain in all of Tamriel, taking each bump and bounce with his face. Ahtar, the headsman of Solitude, was a man every bit the picture of his trade. The Redguard's dark face was crisscrossed by stripes of lighter pigmentation, and his nose did not only appear to have been broken, but positively bashed in several times over. And, had Castorius not known better, he might have thought those hard black eyes knew nothing but hard justice.

He was under no confusion, though, about the man simply playing his role. Many a time you saw the town executioner cowering behind a cowl, but Ahtar had a way of turning his face itself into a mask, one which betrayed nothing of the big man's true character. The normally soft-spoken man became a hunk of stone, whose professed silence was itself near deafening.

In front of Ahtar, the execution block eagerly awaited fresh blood. The heavy slab of wood was wrought with dents and welts from previous guests, whose gore had been permanently absorbed into its fiber. Castorius thought the thing might have stood in that place from the very conception of Solitude, and since then Skyrim had known a tumultuous past of unrest and warfare.

Now that the audience was more or less fully assembled, an anticipatory silence descended upon it. It turned out to be a popular event, at least a couple dozen attendants; the word of the morning's entertainment must have gotten out to the close-by towns as well. People of shorter stature at the back had to crane their necks for a full view, and Castorius sneered at the bloodthirstiness of the mob. He sought out the fair-skinned girl he'd seen earlier, and was damned if there wasn't a glimmer of anticipation in those otherwise unassuming pale eyes.

Despite himself, he aired out another vexed exhale. Nothing like these macabre chop-off parties to further fracture his already brittle sense of trust in the loftier qualities of his fellow man. Not that he'd ever been much of a philanthropist to start with. But this was one too many times he'd have to attend this sort of sinister revelry, and having served in the city guard for some time, he'd attended them plenty.

Of course, it was no coincidence today's proceedings boasted a particular popularity. This wasn't to be your usual execution, but owed its special nature to at least two reasons. For instance, it was the first time a beheading would stem from solely political reasons, unlike usually when this sort of punishment befell the usual sort of cases: murderers, rapists, even, in some cases, common thieves. But the display today was to be a "swift and harsh punishment" on account of a proclaimed "outrageous and callous act of treason".

The plebs, of course, had been spared from any particulars on what it was exactly that comprised such a despicable act, but Castorius suspected that even if they had been let in on the details, they would have paid little attention anyway. Simple law, simple justice, simple punishments: that was the only language the masses understood.

The fellows-at-arms around Castorius prepared for something to change. As one, they switched the position of their hands from behind their backs to their sides. Castorius did not follow suit. He could not, for a thick rope kept his wrists together about the small of his back.

For the other way in which today's execution stood out from any previous ones he'd witnessed was that today it was to be his head on that chopping block.

That thought in mind, he gazed anew upon the less-than-inviting podium of honor. He'd rested his head on more becoming pillows. A flash of an image of a well-proportioned feminine bosom sprung to mind. He felt his head already sitting loose on his shoulders as he let his eyes rest on the blade of the executioner's axe by Ahtar's hip—so sharp it felt as if you could nick your eye by the sheer act of looking at it.

Everybody's attention was taken by Captain Aldis, who now stepped up and cleared his throat. He unfolded a piece of paper, but when he spoke, he never once looked at it. "Citizens of Solitude, and of Skyrim; and all those visiting," he started. His voice was level and clear, but not very loud. Castorius could see people cocking their heads to hear better. Perhaps it was his thick Nord accent. "We are about to execute a traitor to the Empire," he continued, "the first time ever we've had to resort to such extreme measures. Let this be a lesson to those others possibly harboring rebellious sentiments!" His matter-of-fact tone did little to visibly intimidate anyone, though his words certainly resonated within Castorius.

Aldis turned around, and afforded him a level look. The man's eyes were hard and unfeeling, no clue of their past camaraderie could be read therein—his ever the way of a determinate professional. He addressed Castorius then; gave him a brief but detailed account of his crimes.

Lies, every single line of it.

Castorius grit his teeth, and let the accusation flow over him. He did not need to hear it; it hadn't slipped his mind. He'd read the confession, written supposedly by his own hand. The only part of it originating from him, however, was his name, signed underneath the supposedly accurate recounting. He'd given it on the spot.

And now, coming to the part where Aldis asked him if he in any way contradicted the claims made, he simply shook his head, drawing a rowdy reaction from the crowd.

"Traitor!" somebody yelled.

Yeah, sure. Why not.

"Stormcloak!" yelled another: a short, barren-featured man, who, judging by the look of him, doubtless busted his back in the fields every day of his life for a meager and largely joyless living, just to be able to satisfy the rapacious hunger of his beloved Empire. His face contorted with anger as he yelled out his accusation, dealt out like a dearly-treasured babe finally sent out into the world, as if the taunt itself were the most heinous insult he could possibly have dreamed up.

Well, perhaps a Stormcloak wouldn't have been quite the most heinous thing out there a man could be. Castorius could easily think of one or two worse, and he'd known those types of people. In fact, he might have been one of those types. Perhaps he still was.

Maybe he deserved this, after all.

But this self-deluding pleb moron and his ilk, with their righteous anger and lithe political sensibilities, and their petty slogans and slights, couldn't have been more wrong. The man they now so eagerly crucified with their loathing looks, had never, ever, had any political affiliations. None whatsoever.

No, Janus Castorius had only ever served two masters. The first and foremost of them was his stomach. And his stomach, as it turned out, demanded a due filling on regular bases, otherwise proving to be a quarrelsome master indeed. Sure, soldiers got fed regularly, but the unfortunate fact was, Castorius' stomach had developed far too refined a taste for any military gruel to satisfy. In this, it had a staunch follower and a fiercely loyal right-hand man named Palate, whose critical discernment was always to ensure no inferior denizens populated the realm on a more than strictly necessary basis.

For though obvious it was that every man had to eat, for Castorius, a man's measure lay not in the necessities of his existence, but rather in the fashion in which he chose to succumb to them. He may not be able to choose the conditions of his surroundings, or the nature of his needs, but he could damn well decide how he was going to live with them, what quality of satisfactions he was to seek. Would he simply capitulate, and accept the limitations of his externals—settle for what was afforded to him—or would he stand for himself, and make the best of his situation? Would he, in other words, be willing to take what he wanted, even if it meant putting his own safety a risk?

In Castorius' mind, a true man—an authentic man—would without exception always pick the latter option. Such was his unwavering conviction. And this is where it had landed him.

No regrets.

As if to offer its own account, his stomach growled. Castorius ignored it, instead reflexively tracking down the young girl in the crowd. He saw her looking straight at him now with quite unbashful forwardness. She gave him a shy but knowing smile, verging on the sort of soft cruelty only accessible to those innocent.

Yes, regrets . . .

Deep sigh—once more.

For it was Castorius' second lord and master, holding his court just a few inches below the first, who did—and brothers did he ever ever—make the former look like a beggar monk in comparison. Castorius, in other words, loved—had always loved—the ladies. Though, to be perfectly honest, he could not readily say if it was he himself who loved them, or was it him, this second master of his.

Well, nevertheless. It was a tough contest which one of the two masters was more prone to get Castorius in trouble, but the bottom line nonetheless stood: both had found out long ago that the absolutely best way to keep in whatever it was they desired the most was gold. Status came right in its wake. And the more of either two, the better.

The problem was, however, that the pay of the run-of-the-mill soldier was not much to pen home about. Sure, it was possible even for a non-ranking soldier to occasionally get to enjoy more savory dishes than the usual diet of porridge, cabbages, and, on good days, salted meat. It also had to be admitted that the uniform itself was certainly an incentive to many women, especially when it was carried by a tall, fairly comely man such as Castorius. The fact that being from Cyrodiil made him exotic and exciting in Skyrim also helped. Not that he'd experienced too much difficulty back home, either.

The fact remained, however, that the joys thus acquired were either sporadic in nature, or simply subject to waning due to the obvious fact that time waited for no man. Castorius was going to get older, and if he could not find a way to rise in his social and economic stature, he would not be able to satisfy all of his needs indefinitely. So that had been his foremost objective for the past year. It scarcely needed to be pointed out that it had proved to be less than perfect a success. Not only had he not managed to make any headway, he would soon have no head to make any way with.

But he was no traitor. After all, how could one be a traitor when one had no loyalties? His own cause he certainly had not betrayed. If there was a call for any proof of that, his current situation should well suffice. Clearly he was a man willing to perish for his beliefs. Or lack thereof.

Yet, he still could not really lend any credibility to any of what was happening. That was part of the reason why he'd never denied the accusations made against him—even when they'd made it perfectly clear the punishment for his alleged crimes was to be death. He had not conceded.

Let them try, he'd thought.

Even to Castorius himself that had seemed absolutely foolish. Why he'd chosen that approach, he could not say. He did not understand it himself. But it was an unmistakable certainty in his gut that they could not kill him.

Was it not him who was delusional?

Why not.

"Prisoner, step forward!" Captain Aldis commanded. Castorius did as told. He stood next to the block, looked down on the red-stained thing as upon a mere curiosity. All felt as if in a dream.

"Let's see if Ulfric can save you now!" somebody jeered, drawing a halfhearted tide of chuckles.

Ulfric had promised him gold. That was about it. All he'd asked.

"Lay your head down," Aldis said almost gently. Behind Castorius, Ahtar stirred, readying his time-tested killing-axe.

Castorius knelt, laid his neck in the depression in the block, and closed his eyes. At times like these, people tended to pray, he knew. Castorius had no one to pray to, and nothing to say. He thought of Elisif, the young wife of the High King, and felt something akin to an ache. This is for you, he thought, surprised himself by the near-genuine sentiment.

"Have you any last words?" asked Aldis. He might have brought that up while Castorius was still upright.

Still, he said nothing, trusting the silence would speak for itself.

"Alright," Aldis finally said. Castorius braced himself. Would it hurt? He'd heard the head was able to see for a few minutes after it had been detached, and as it rolled off the chopping block. He hoped that was not true, as he was prone to motion sickness.

Would there be something on the other side? He wasn't sure if he'd wish for it or not.

For some reason, he thought of a song sung to him as child by his mother, a woman whose face or voice he could not presently bring to mind. Not that he remembered the lyrics of the song either. He though he might have had a specter of a recollection of what the melody might had been.

Strange, the things that went on in a man's head as his imminent death fast approached.

Though it did seem to take forever. What was the holdup?

Castorius then heard Ahtar's deep inhale, and found himself flexing his neck muscles, as if they could somehow stop the blade.

This was it.

"Stormcloaks!" somebody yelled.

Yes, yes, Castorius thought impatiently. We all heard that the first time, and it's not—

Wait, this time it had been in plural.

The blow did not come, but the crowd started babbling.

When after a few seconds the axe still had not landed and the commotion in its stead kept picking up, Castorius dared to open his eyes. He turned his neck around on the block to get a look at Ahtar, who stood hanging the axe loose in his hand, his eyes directed towards the crowd. Castorius followed his gaze.

A minor commotion had transpired at the gate where some guards huddled together, parleying with evident agitation. The plebs moved about nervously, babbling among themselves, "attack" being the only word Castorius could clearly discern. Then, a flustered-looking imperial soldier burst through the gate. He stared open-mouthed at the guards for a few seconds, drained of all color. "Stormcloaks," he said then, and all around both guards and soldiers automatically drew swords.

A near panic broke loose among the crowd, everybody tying to out-cry each other. "Ulfric has declared war!" somebody yelled.

"They've come to set their comrade free!" said another.

Yes, surely.

Castorius wasn't sure what to expect next. Would he still be executed? Or would he be expected to take up arms? He might be able to flee with all the commotion . . .

But a strong hand tore him to his feet. Captain Aldis. He held firmly onto Castorius' arm, and motioned for Roggvir to join him. Roggie, as Castorius called him, took the other arm. "Let's get him out of here," Aldis said. He addressed Castorius. "You've lucked out," he said, with no evident emotion. "For now."

And—without giving him further explanations, or responding to any of his queries—his two former friends wordlessly hauled Castorius through the disoriented multitudes and back into his cell.

He couldn't say he'd missed it, but was glad to be going back.


	2. Back Behind Bars

A rat would have rejected these conditions, Castorius reflected, sitting on his bed and letting his eye wander around the cell. The floor tiles were cracked, the corners of the ceiling festooned with thick cobwebs, and the wall speckled with mildew. But then, how much could be expected of a dungeon? At least there _were_ no rats.

Stomach growling, he reached for his trencher. All he'd been given to eat was a loaf of stale bread, which, to think on it, was not all that different from being in the service. And at least there was the consolation of a small bottle of good Cyrodiilian olive oil, which some sympathetic soldier had brought him. Troops from Cyrodiil always stocked those, for they were unaccustomed and, quite rightly so, off-put by the indigenous Nord custom of slathering their bread with butter.

Castorius ripped off a piece of the loaf, and dipped it in the oil sitting in a small bowl. The oil was nice and spicy, nearly flavorful enough to drown the dreariness of its vessel. Chewing, he scoffed internally at these barbarians, wasting perfectly good cooking-butter on their bread.

From some other cell, a long, haunted wail sounded the jail-complex, reverberating in the masonry. It was abruptly cut off by a clang, like a heavy iron pot clattering on the stone floor. Then it was quiet again. Somebody further away launched into a coughing fit.

And to think: just less than an hour ago Castorius had been ready to trade the joys of Aetherius for this. Well, at least he could be sure _this_ place existed. There was something to be said for certainty at times.

No word of what went on outside had come to him. Had an actual war really broken out? If you'd asked him, he could've sworn a proper armed conflict between the Stormcloaks and the rightful imperial rule of Skyrim would never take place. Surely Ulfric Stormcloak was out of his mind if that was the case. Castorius had with his own eyes seen the kind of "army" the man boasted: miserable, poorly trained troops for the most part, with plenty of conviction but not any real battle experience. They could never have in a million years waged a successful war against the best-trained military in all of the known world. In fact, Ulfric should have damn well thanked his lucky stars that his actions thus far had been so well tolerated. He'd been allowed to rally people to his side, raise his own private army off the peasantry, and train them freely without getting hassled.

It had been only The High King Torygg, the nominal ruler of the province, and his heartfelt patience, completed with his prestige in the Emperor's eyes, mediating the situation and keeping the imperial forces from fully rolling in on the ill-equipped would-be rebels—from crushing their pitiful resistance before it had time to take even the first of its wobbly little baby steps.

_They would hardly break a sweat doing it._

Castorius was quite offended, then, that he should have been believed to have affiliated himself with such a foolish, doomed endeavor. Sure, he'd had tentative business with Ulfric, as any man of the game sought to cover all possible bases, but to abandon his cozy position to take part in this ridiculous enterprise to "liberate" the province from the Imperial rule? Talk about trading your jewels for marbles!

Of course, Castorius knew the allegations against him to be totally disingenuous. It was part of some charade, the nature of which presently alluded him. So he'd seen best to keep his mouth shut, and just play along. Among other reasons . . .

The brief post that had gotten him to talks with Ulfric in the first place—as a member of the city guard of Windhelm, the hub of the Stormcloak movement—had been among the most miserable of his life. The cold and the wind had been even worse up there, the food largely tasteless and sparsely supplied. But worst of all, the women had all but shunned him. One might have not anticipated it, but the frigid climate actually seemed to have frozen the local womenfolk's legs permanently together.

Not to mention the men with their hard, jealous eyes. Folks up there did not like outsiders.

It had lasted until Ulfric had declared that he'd replace all guards there with his own men. That Torygg had allowed this testified once more to his forbearance. But Castorius himself had been less stunned than he'd been delighted to have been called back. Unfortunately, though, against his own fantasies of having been re-instated in his previous, _very_ enjoyable post, he'd instead been arrested and held in custody for several weeks of uncertainty, awaiting a proper set of accusations.

It had been sheer torture. He'd even feared the King must have found out the truth.

For his previous assignment before the Windhelm gig, the one he'd been more than keen to get back to, had been as the personal sentry of the King's wife, Elisif the Fair. He though back fondly on that. Elisif, the beautiful Elisif, whom everybody quite rightly loved, but whom they all took for an innocent—that is, all those who, unlike Castorius, didn't know any better.

_Elisif, Elisif,_ he though wistfully. The soft, pale skin, and the arches of her full bosom, her hips, and her lubricious rump. The full lips and the way they adopted a seductive, playful smile before making love, the way they twisted in the throes of climax, and the pensive little pout they assumed afterwards as she lay spent beside him. Castorius found within himself a near desperate yearning to live those days again. A warm sensation flowed through him, and a ticklish glow lit between his thighs. He would have given much to stroke those ginger locks once more, to grab them as she traced an avenue of kisses down his abdomen. He missed the way she tasted, the subtle variety of flavor in the different regions of her supple, curvaceous form.

Not that it had been love, by any means—an emotion all but entirely alien to—

Somebody cleared a throat, and Castorius startled. He reflexively dropped his hands as a visual guard about his crotch.

It was Ahtar. He stood at the door of the cell, observing Castorius from behind the rusted bars. How long had he been standing there?

"How long have you been standing there?" Castorius asked.

Ahtar snorted lightly. "Not very."

"Was there something you wanted?" This was not the right time. Castorius was hardly in a mood for chatting.

Ahtar shrugged. "Not much," he said, ever the conversationalist.

Castorius drew a breath, let it out slowly, and stood up. He had to wince, for the lack of motion had stiffened his legs. He walked by the bars. "What's going on out there?"

Ahtar shrugged. "Don't know," he said. "Been down here."

"No news, then? Are we at war?"

"Like I said, I don't know. They're not in the habit of keeping me informed, your kind."

_Your_ kind. "You serve the Empire too," Castorius pointed out.

Ahtar's broad shoulders rose. "I guard." The shoulders fell. "I chop."

Astutely put. Instinctively, Castorius rubbed at his neck with the head still intact.

"Looks as if your fate has been postponed," Ahtar said.

"That's how it seems."

"And already I hear a rumor that Sybille got interested once the word went out to her. She's been asking about you, you know?" Ahtar's smile lacked humor. "Wondering if you're, uh, _available_."

Sybille Stentor. The thought of the court wizard sparked a grim foreboding in Castorius. He was not in the habit of fearing women, but that one in particular gave him the willies. Something unsavory lurked behind that dark cowl. "What does she want with me?" he asked, not prepared for any answer.

Ahtar got minimally animated. "I'll be damned if I know what that accursed woman is about!" he said. "All I know is she gives me the creeps, and I'll be glad to be wherever she is _not_." He gave Castorius a grave look. "Were I you, I'd think just the same." Then he smiled, and patted the bars on the door. "But then of course, you are here."

That was obviously just the problem. Castorius' mood darkened further. He turned around, said, "Unless you came here to gloat over my misery, I'd appreciate if you just left me be," walking to his bed.

When he turned back, he found Ahtar still standing there, staring. "What?"

There's something I never asked you, Castorius," said Ahtar.

"What's that?"

Ahtar looked at him, level. "Why did you do it?"

_Of course._ Castorius let out a sigh, and walked back to the door. "I didn't," he said.

"Ah."

Castorius frowned. "What do you mean 'ah'?"

"I figured you didn't."

"You did?"

"Yeah, makes perfect sense," Ahtar said. "Everyone here? Innocent, the lot of 'em." The corners of his dark lips twitched. "Yup, none come though here ever done anything wrong their entire lives—not a single gods-damned little thing. Clean consciences full, every cell." he barked a dry laugh. "In fact, the only guilty men I've ever seen here have been on the rack. And even those only materialize after some hours of pointless screaming and assuring of innocence." He considered that a moment. "Well, perhaps not exactly _hours_." Was that professional pride shining through?

"And did it never occur to you," Castorius said, "that a confession acquired though torture may not be the most reliable one?"

Ahtar cocked a thoughtful eyebrow. "No, I don't suppose it ever did." He did not appear to be particularly bothered by that.

"Why do _you_ do it?" asked Castorius.

Ahtar grunted. "It's what they pay me for."

"Not that. Serve the Empire, I mean. After they let your people down?"

The Empire had all but utterly abandoned Hammerfell, the province from which the Redguard people hailed, by signing what was called The White-Gold Concordat with the Thalmor Dominion, ending the Great War twenty-five years ago. As a result of the treaty, Hammerfell had been partly ceded to the Dominion, leaving Hammerfell to fight its own bitter war against the Thalmor. Despite the unlikely success of that war—they had managed to drive out the high elves—the people of Hammerfell had rightfully been left with deep resentment against the Empire that had sold them out.

Ahtar remained silent for a few heartbeats. Then he shrugged. "Guess I was never much of a patriot to start with."

Castorius grunted. "Guess that would make you something of an oddity then." He could relate, of course: most people in Cyrodiil were very proud of their own people as well— _and_ of the Empire.

But not him.

After all, what was there to feel pride for about a massive machine-like structure where individual efforts carried no weight? Quite to the contrary, the Empire was a force like that of nature, which crushed underneath it all that was unique, all that stood on its own. In short: it quelled all possibilities for true heroism, eroded every step upon which a man could rise to make his own way to the stars. It was truly the the optimal object of veneration for the sheep, for the masses consisting of men apt for working as nothing more than pinions.

Did this make Castorius a hypocrite? Quite possibly, but he excused himself of the accusation on account of only working for the machine to forward his own goals. It was for him nothing but a way station, a necessary evil that he would seek to exploit to the best of his abilities as long as was needed. What else could he do?

Castorius' comment seemed to have made Ahtar contemplative. "It's not that simple, really," he said finally. "In a way I, like all my countrymen, _am_ a patriot. Maybe even more so than most."

"How is that?"

Ahtar smiled bitterly. "As you may know, Hammerfell has since time immemorial been a country divided."

Castorius nodded. The Crowns and the Forebears: they were the two factions that had waged war on each other for as long as anyone could remember, for reasons fantastically obscure to those whom it did not concern. The war against Thalmor had gotten them to temporarily cease hostilities, but it wasn't clear whether that was to be a lasting state of affairs.

"And as you know, there has been an uncharacteristically long period of peace ever since the Great War."

Castorius nodded again. "A permanent one?"

"Ha! When is anything permanent?" Ahtar shook his head. "Nay, ever since the war, the hostilities have slowly built anew. Stewing and stewing, like a nice pot of soup."

_Don't remind me!_ Castorius thought. It was roughly lunchtime. Soup sounded just about right.

"And so," Ahtar went on, "it is merely a matter of time before blood of my kinsmen will once more irrigate that arid land."

"And that's why you've left? To avoid it?" It made perfect sense to Castorius.

Not so with Ahtar. He spat on the floor-tiles, visibly agitated. "Never! Rather I'd behead myself on that chopping-block than ever do anything that cowardly!"

Despite being shaken by the big man's sudden outburst—and it calling into attention the undeniably cowardly thoughts within Castorius himself—he couldn't help but be tickled by the image thus evoked. He did his best to suffocate a smile, as it could be taken wrongly.

"No," Ahtar continued, his usual calm now a memory, "I left because of what I knew to be inevitable: the failure of the cause I'd been brought up with. But not to flee, mind you! To carry the ideas within me to safety, to hopefully one day return and revive them."

"And what would that cause be?" inquired Castorius. He wanted to add: "saving your own hide?" but held his tongue. He'd escaped that axe once today, and was less likely to do so again—not in this confined space.

Ahtar straightened his already imposing posture, making himself look even huger. "Unity," he proclaimed, as if a novel, revolutionary idea that had never before known daylight.

"Of your people?"

Ahtar gave a solemn nod. "I belong to a small but sound minority, which seeks to once more reinstate a king in Hammerfell. One ruler to unite the people long divided by petty disputes and power struggles."

Castorius didn't even want to try to imagine the extent of bloodshed they'd no doubt generate trying to decide who this king was going to be. He didn't say anything, of course.

All a sudden, he felt tremendously bored with the whole subject matter. He wished he'd never brought it up. He'd heard this sort of reasoning countless times before. A king—a king would solve our problems! Stop the fighting! Feed the hungry! Assure justice! And how much of those very things had any kingdom ever seen? What purpose would such an institution ultimately serve but the individual lust and avarice of the said ruler, and of those who either thought they could benefit from him, or, alternatively, take his place?

And who was Castorius to speak? Were those not the very things, lust and avarice, that drove him also? Though, with him it was different. He'd never wanted power, simply freedom from the power of others. Was that really too much to ask?

Castorius realized Ahtar was still talking, but he had not been listening. ". . . justice and the preservation of peace . . ." the man went on. Castorius quickly tuned back out. The look on Ahtar's face betrayed that he was no longer paying attention to his audience anyway. He was on a tangent. He sounded like a pet parrot, trained to repeat word-for-word what ever it was his master had dictated. That's how they all sounded, in the end.

Finally Ahtar stopped. "And would you not agree?"

Castorius feigned a slow, thoughtful nod of agreement. "Indeed, I would," he said.

Ahtar looked satisfied.

Before the big man had a chance to continue any further on the tiresome topic, Castorius said, "So, they way I see it, like me, you are a man of opportunities."

"An opportunist, you mean?" Ahtar asked, smiling obliquely.

Castorius waved a hand. "Semantics," he said. "The bottom line is: you don't just stand around waiting the axe to drop. You're not afraid to make a call you know will get you ahead, no matter how the people around you may see it."

"Do I detect some self-extenuation?"

"No!" replied Castorius. "I mean . . . well, yes."

"So—innocent?"

"Who's ever innocent?"

Ahtar gave a slow nod. "Point taken."

Castorius let a long breath. "What I'm saying is—" he said, stepping close to the jailer, "—you _get_ it."

Castorius could feel Ahtar's hot, heavy breath on his face. The man crunched up his brow. "And . . . ?"

Castorius peered behind the big man, ascertaining they were alone, then whispered, "You could help me." He just barely kept himself from cringing. It was a dangerous game he was playing; but then what did he have to lose?

Ahtar's nostrils flared near-imperceptibly. He regarded the shorter man through narrowed eyelids. "I could, could I?" he muttered, working his jaw.

A flicker of hope sparked within Castorius, as Ahtar seemed to be considering the insinuated proposal. It was now or never. "Yes," he said, "and nobody would need to know. I'm sure prisoners escape from here all the time."

Ahtar laughed. "I ought to feel affronted!"

Castorius bypassed that. "Especially now if there's fighting going on."

" _If._ "

"You heard the guard! He specifically said 'Stormcloaks'. What else could it mean?"

"You'd be surprised," replied Ahtar.

_I doubt that,_ Castorius thought. He sighed, gathering momentum for one more attempt. "Look, we don't have much time," he said urgently. "If you could—"

His words were cut off by the sound of footsteps, several pairs of boots advancing towards them. Instinctively, he pulled back from the barred door, and Ahtar himself quickly turned around to welcome whoever approached.

Castorius cursed to himself. _So close!_ If only they hadn't squandered their time blathering about ineffectual political fancies . . .

The arrival was Captain Aldis, accompanied by three soldiers. "Captain," Ahtar said, "what's going on out there?"

Without replying to the Redguard's inquiries, Aldis pointed at the cell door. "Open, please."

Ahtar pressed the issue no further but simply turned around and started fitting a key inside the lock. He gave Castorius a brief glance that may have contained a pinch of condolence, even regret.

Once the door was open, Captain Aldis looked at Castorius, stone-faced. "Get out, prisoner."

"Aldis!" Castorius greeted with feigned joviality, stepping out and in front of his old friend. "Come to set me free, have you?"

The three soldiers apprehended him. Aldis snorted. "You wish." Then, for the first time since Castorius' arrest, the look in the guard-captain's eyes broke out from his thus-far unflappable role. There was perhaps a dash of smirk on his lips when he said, "The High King wants to see you."

At that, Castorius' face sagged in unison with his sinking heart. "Shit," he said.

This was exactly what he had feared.


	3. Disconcerting Bedfellows

Your Grace," implored the sallow-faced, gaunt man wringing his hands in front of the royal seat. "surely you'll agree that—"

"I'll _agree_ ," came the High King Torygg's peremptory reply, "that you have wasted enough of my time as it is." Then, as the man seemed to deflate of all spirit, the King assumed a somewhat softer look, saying, "You've made your point," in a level voice, "and it will be duly considered—of that, you'll have my word."

The sickly-looking man recovered a bit at that. "Thank you, your Highness," he said. He made his awkward obeisance, then promptly retrograded, not daring to turn his back until he'd reached the stairs leading down.

Castorius snorted quietly to himself. Quite the freak-show this had proved to be.

He'd stood there for over an hour by then, at the sidelines of the High King's throne room, listening to a petition after a supplication after a briefing of military stratagem, vacillating between amusement and utter tedium. He'd expected a private hearing with the crowned head himself, not to partake in this absurd routine of his regnant responsibilities. Who would have thought the life of a king would prove to be so boring?

Well, Castorius would have, to think on it.

All the same, no words had been wasted on the prospect of war, nor on any battle or the earlier disturbance. The Stormcloaks had been mentioned once—in the context of 'geopolitical impregnability', whatever in gods' names that might have meant—but the topic of an immediate threat of a civil war was acutely conspicuous in its absence.

Suspicion was slowly stirring within him.

The expressions stood mostly placid on the faces of the attendants around the central space, where one supplicant after another stated their business and received Torygg's usually curt reply. Captain Aldis stood basically expressionless opposite of Castorius, his the job of the herald who ushered the supplicants and, if necessary, encouraged them to depart once their business had been judged as dealt with. This left Falk Firebeard, the High King's steward, free to stand by him, to whisper his advice into the regent's ear, and doubtless to brief in the necessary detail of the given person presenting their case.

The King's wife Elisif had her seat next to her husband, but Castorius did his best not to look upon her. This took a considerable amount of effort.

Two soldiers stood on each side of Castorius like a pair of automatons—good dogs to a man, of that there was little doubt. Was this the impression that _he_ had given in service? This machine-like unmalleability? Were their any individual thoughts behind those stony faces and expressionless eyes?

He did not want to think about that either, so decided to just try and ignore them.

The room itself could have been larger, he thought, as it was scarcely the size of a living room in the house of any given caste-noble. The High King's throne stood on a squat dais currently bathed in the light of the forenoon sun, which managed to give the man a nearly otherworldly impression. Castorius also had to admit that Torygg was quite an imposing sight in his own right, wearing his crown and his purple and turquoise royal garb. His proud, bearded face made him appear at least a good decade, if not two, older that his relatively young age, and the impression was further enhanced by the stout figure that his firm posture underlined. This was a man whose presence commanded respect, and was no doubt looking at a long and successful reign.

Even if he _was_ just a puppet.

Castorius looked towards the staircase to his left, at the line of supplicants. Was this to go on much longer? To his despair, the other of the two sets of arching stairs was still populated by plebs waiting their turn, the other set being reserved for those retreating. Above them loomed a large dome, and through the stained-glass windows lining it, the space was flooded with columns of sunlight—like scraps of mercy from a celestial paradise they would never attain.

Why was Castorius even there? He'd not been added to the line of people waiting for their turn, so at least it did seem like his business was not lumped together with the rest of the High King's routines. It was almost as if they had specifically wanted him present at this monotony. To show him what sort of power the regent wielded, perhaps? Did they really think this would impress him? Or maybe they had changed their minds about the beheading, and were now looking to bore him to death instead?

The whole court of Solitude appeared to be present. Even Sybille Stentor, the infamous court wizard, had deigned to participate—though she'd normally tend to spend the bulk of daylight in bed. For an important figure in the court, her schedule gravitated towards a peculiarly nocturnal nature. Though, underneath her dark-blue cowled robes, it was not always possible to tell for sure whether or not she was truly awake. She stood completely still, with not the tiniest of fidgets, just like an erect corpse. This image was strengthened by what skin her garb allowed a view of, namely her hands and a part of her face. They were very pale.

As if by a sixth sense, she noticed Castorius' eyes on her, and turned to meet his gaze. Her smile's power to unsettle was coterminous with its complete lack of warmth. Castorius promptly looked elsewhere. He suppressed the shiver that meeting the woman's eyes tended to give him. He could not say exactly what, but there was something unnatural about them. A certain malignant burning in them, contrasting with the otherwise icy mien.

As if in search for warmth and comfort, his eyes were then drawn to Elisif. The beautiful, young Queen was outwardly as stern as ever, trying to make herself at once regal and, to her best ability, unnoticeable. On the first account, Castorius judged, she did very well, her very young age and lack of experience considered. But how could she ever hope to not attract the attention of everyone in the room with her delicate, radiant presence? It was obvious she was the mammoth in the room everybody wanted to stare at, and yet nobody dared to. She was the reason, if there ever was any, that the King should be envied. Not that he had power over the province, such as it was, but that he had _her_.

As had Castorius. After a fashion, leastwise.

All care cast aside, he drank the sight of her: her silky pale complexion; the copper hair coming down in waves on her slender shoulders; those full lips, pursed as they were in an intimation of propriety, and Castorius could not help a smile at the thought of the surprisingly bawdy tongue they hid behind them.

All of a sudden, her eyes turned to meet his, and a vexed frown creased her smooth, coroneted brow. Her blue eyes flashed with irritation and the nostrils of her straight-edged nose flared, then she sharply averted her gaze.

Such a petulant show of disdain further damped Castorius' mood. He had, in his mind, been a perfect gentleman, so from where was this bleak wind now blowing? With growing displeasure, he searched the woman's face for a clue. She did not turn to look again.

To his dismay, however, Castorius noticed then that the King himself was glaring straight at him, and by the anger darkening his aspect, Castorius had no doubt in his mind the King had caught him eyeing his somewhat too young, and undeniably all-too-beautiful, wife. Castorius tried for a quick smile, friendly as to be obsequious, then quickly looked away, letting his eye wander all across the room, surveying in turn each person present in hopes of giving out an impression it was what he'd been doing all along.

He also took care to wipe the smile off his face while at it.

Castorius felt a cool sweat starting to gather upon his brow. He was treading very dangerous ground, he knew. Had the King any inkling of what had gone down between his wife and Castorius, he'd doubtless have him flayed—several times over, if if his knowledge of the details of the transgression went even a trifle beyond an inkling.

And yet, despite the eminent peril hanging above of his head, Castorius had a hard time keeping a smile from pulling at his lips at the memory of those fleeting nights of clandestine ecstasy. Despite himself, he stole another glance at the queen—her poised exterior of unassuming innocence that he knew for a facade, but that so perfectly hid the untamed beast he knew to lie within.

He felt a pang, then, that he at first took for guilt, but that on closer examination revealed itself as pity. The High King probably had no idea of the true person behind Elisif's mask, and thus had no way of being able to give her what she really longed for. The High King was undeniably a kind man, and no doubt in his way even worshiped his wife, but did not strike Castorius as a man of the arts, and that was indubitably the precise thing Elisif would have needed.

Maybe Castorius should be the High King.

Yes, that would be a position befitting him.

Well, it would be without all the actual work that actually went into it. In fact, the mere thought of it made him wary. Just looking at what the man had to deal with was more than enough to quell any and all desire for his post. No wonder if the High King had no energy left to properly satisfy his wife. Maybe Castorius could offer to do it for him, if for just a meager income. And perhaps a minor title that came with no real importance or responsibility.

Not that he could, Elisif's undeniably rare sort of beauty notwithstanding, possibly limit his amorous endeavors to just one woman. But perhaps it could be established that—

The soldier on his right shoved him hard in the shoulder. "Answer the King when he speaks to you, insolent dog!" he barked.  
 _  
Who's the dog here?_ Castorius thought. He feigned a smile, however, and bowed down his head. "Your Highness?" He wondered if he should kneel, but did not do so.

Torygg did not seem to mind. He waved at Castorius. "Come forth, why don't you," he said impatiently.

Castorius stepped in front of the High King, giving the man a quizzical look. Perhaps pretending at innocence would be the prudent approach to take.

"You stand accused of high treason, soldier," the High King said.

Castorius raised an eyebrow, a gesture completely unpremeditated. "Yes, I believe I was to be executed upon the selfsame accusation. A ceremony unfortunately, um, _cut short_."

Torygg, would not be goaded. "So, you deny it?" The expression on his face was a shrewd one.

Castorius, at a loss as what to reply, kept his silence for a heartbeat or two. "I do not," he said. He thought there might have been a collective gasp in the room, but could not tell for the sound of rushing blood in his ears. What he was doing still felt idiotic, but he had his reasons.

"I see," the High King said. He gave Falk Firebeard a quick look. The man shrugged. Torygg turned back to Castorius. "Well, it matters not."

"No?" asked Castorius, taken aback.

Torygg shook his crowned head. "No. For if it did, you'd be standing here a head shorter."

Castorius was a bit surprised by the tepid murmur of laughter sounding from behind him. He turned to look, and found the crowd at the top of the stairs listening intently.

The High King frowned. "Get rid of these people," he said, waving a hand. "We don't need an audience."

At once, Captain Aldis gave a curt bow and went on to steer the people off. Even after being explained that the proceedings would continue after a recess, there were some separate grumbles from several individuals, griping about losing their positions in the queue.

As the rabble had been heralded out, the King looked around him. "Everyone else, take a break," he said, and continued "except for Falk", even though the man had not so much as budged. Elisif gave her husband an inquisitive look. He placed his hand on her slender thigh, smiled, and gave an affirmative nod.

As Elisif sailed past Castorius, she was careful not to acknowledge him in any way.

"Your Grace," said Captain Aldis with a questioning intonation, standing at rigid attention.

"You and your men are dismissed," Torygg replied.

Aldis frowned, giving Castorius a quick glance." Are you sure?"

"I should hope so—I _am_ the High King," Torygg reminded. Aldis gave a brief nod, then collected his cronies, and retreated.

"Sybille, dear," The King said softly, "you stay."

_Of course,_ Castorius thought. The outlandish woman had hardly made a move, obviously anticipating this.

_'Dear'?_

After a moment, it was just Castorius alone with the King and the King's most trusted. He felt oddly naked in front of their scrutiny. It did not help that he was forced to squint for all the sunlight on them. It felt an awful lot like being interrogated by some lower-level gods.

"So," Torygg started. "Guilty as charged, then?"

Castorius made no reply.

The High King let out a joyless laugh. "You can stop pretending now," he said. "I know the truth."

Castorius still said nothing, though his heart did pick up pace.

"Yes, do you think it a coincidence you still boast a head atop your shoulders?"

"Well, your Grace," Castorius said, his mouth dry. "I must admit I was wondering about that."

"'Wondering', he says," the King laughed, addressing his servants, "You hear that?"

Firebeard remained impassive; Sybille leered her eerie sneer.

Torygg re-assumed his seriousness. "I know what you've been up to," he said. "I know you're no traitor, but you've made some disconcerting bedfellows."

The ominous tinge in the Sovereign's voice was impossible to miss. Castorius could practically already feel his skin being pared. _He knows!_ he thought with panic, and felt his physique tense up.

A malignant smile appeared on Torygg's face, as he could no doubt read correctly into Castorius' body language. "Are you surprised I should know?" he asked. He shook his head. "You're not smart enough for a traitor, Castorius."

Oddly enough, Castorius found room in his frightened heart for a feeling of offense. "I'm not?" he said, voice cracking.

"No, You are not," Torygg confirmed. "A whoring, self-serving, petty crook is what you are. I know men like you like I know the backs of my hands. You reek of it!" The vehement contempt in his words made Castorius flinch a little, though he suspected there had been a sprinkle of deliberate exaggeration audible in the High King's voice.

Torygg leaned back, then, and smiled a great deal more sympathetically. "And that is why I need you."

Castorius couldn't stop his jaw from dropping. _Huh?_

"Huh?" he said.

Torygg laughed, delighted. "Oh, you should see yourself right now!" he howled. "What did you think I would do, flay you?"

"Well, as matter of fact—"

"Silence!" Torygg commanded, startling Castorius. He leaned forwards. "I know all about your petty dealing with the Stormcloaks. I knew all along."

"You did?" So this was not about Elisif at all? He _didn't_ know! Castorius might have been relieved, but in truth he still didn't feel anywhere near safety, and over all had a discomfiting foreboding about all of this.

"Yes," replied the King. "And I do not care."

Castorius frowned. "Then why—"

"Do not question me!" the King snapped. "As far as anybody is concerned, you're still a guilty man. And as such, I can order any punishment upon you I see fit."

Now, Castorius was not a man of law, but he was fairly sure that was not correct. There existed a clearly defined punishment for each crime committed. Best he let that be for now, however. He begun to wonder more and more where this was going, curiosity slowly taking a choke-hold on his fear.

The King nodded, satisfied. "Good, you decide to listen. Very prudent of you."

Castor chose to maintain that impression, and said nothing.

"What I need," Torygg went on, "is a man of few scruples." He pointed a finger at Castorius. "That would be you."

_Yes, thank you for clearing that up, your Obviousness,_ Castorius thought. He simply nodded, despite feeling a slight inclination to argue with the High King's ruthless judgment of his character.

"For you also have a history of selling out to the Stormcloaks."

"I wasn't—"

The High King silenced him with a lifted finger. " _And_ you've personally dealt with Ulfric himself."

Torygg had him there. Ulfric had actually been quite pleasant to do business with. Not at all the tormented, war-mongering lunatic he was made out to be. But then few famous people ever lived up to their reputation.

Not that Castorius had any doubt about the man's ability for violent acts if they was needed to promote his cause.

"Are you listening?" Torygg asked, frowning.

Castorius hastened to nod. "Yes, your Highness, I'm listening."

"Good," the King said. "So you listen, and you listen good, and I'll tell you precisely what I need you for."

And so he did. It was not exactly what Castorius would have expected.

It was probably worse.


	4. Out of the Frying Pan . . .

It was looking as if Castorius' execution hadn't been called off after all, merely postponed. The only real difference was that the High King Torygg had decided to relegate the honors of the deed to Ulfric and his Stormcloaks.

Castorius had simply stared at the High King, as the plan had unfolded in front of his increasingly perturbed eyes. And here was the gist: Castorius was to be a spy.

A mother-buggering _spy_!

It was Torygg's rationale that since Castorius was supposedly on good terms with the leader of the Stormcloaks, and since he evidently had a glib tongue on him, he'd have no trouble explaining to the man that he had, with the help of his connections, managed to just barely escape from his execution, and was now looking to join Ulfric in his quest to liberate the province from its "corrupt and unjust rule".

The extra incentive for Ulfric to accept him was his supposed ability to provide the Stormcloaks with inside information about the workings of the Imperial army, and so help them to defeat it.

In reality, or course, it was Castorius' job to gain Ulfric's trust, and to provide Torygg with any information on the Stormcloaks' operation he could gather. He was supposed to get as close to Ulfric as possible, so he could get his hands on the really vital information.

More than anything, Torygg confided, he was looking for a way to constrain Ulfric's rebellion, to steal its wind before it got started blowing in earnest; before any lives got unnecessarily wasted. As he'd said that, Castorius thought it was the most sincere the High King had been that whole time. It was at that moment his stern exterior had appeared to crack, and to reveal the true man within. Right then he'd looked almost as young as he actually was.

The moment passed quickly, however, and the stone-faced regent returned, staring at Castorius with his hard blue eyes. "Well, have you naught to say?"

What was he expecting to hear? _You're insane!_ Castorius thought. _I'll never agree to your mad plan, it would be tantamount to flinging myself off the cliffs of the Blue Palace!_

Probably, though, that would have been incorrect. Ulfric was unlikely to give him such an easy death—he was undoubtedly going to have Castorius interrogated first. But even if he did—and he _would_ —spill out any lies they wanted before the beatings could start in earnest, that would probably not avail him any. If confessions you beat out of your prisoners were untrustworthy by definition, it was doubly true about those given before you even got to it. So best to beat them anyway.

Castorius was no friend of pain.

He cleared his throat, arranging his thoughts carefully in his mind before speaking. "With all due respect, Your Highness, Ulfric is not a stupid man. If I simply walk to him, he's going to suspect something."

Torygg stood up straighter on his throne, the expression on his face getting even harder. "And do you take _me_ for a stupid man?" he asked.

"No, your highness," Castorius hastened to reply. "No, of course not."

The regent nodded. "You'd better not," he said. "I don't think I need to remind you your life still hangs by a very thin thread. The end of which I hold." He made an odd gesture, then, with the fingers of his right hand pinched together, as if holding the end of the mentioned thread. Once he'd concluded this bizarre pantomime, he continued. "No, I'm not a stupid man," he said. "Do you honestly think that I would send you to Ulfric not thinking he will suspect something?"

Castorius tried to make sense of that.

"Of course he will!" Torygg spat."In fact, I'm counting on it."

The only thing Castorius understood was that he did not at all like where this was going.

Torygg twisted his lips into a sardonic smile. "He will be suspicious, alright," he said. "For in addition to not being stupid, neither is he a fool. He will suspect but not act on it, not immediately. He will want to see what my angle is."

Forgetting himself, Castorius blurted, "What _is_ your angle?"

At that, the smile, as unfriendly as it had been, was wiped off of the High King's face. He said nothing, simply repeated his earlier silly gesture, giving Castorius a very significant look. It spoke more than any words ever could have, and Castorius' mouth snapped shut.

"I'll hear no more of this," Torygg then said with a wave of hand. "I've made my offer, and should you decline it, it will be back to the dungeons with you." He leaned forward with a cruel gleam in his eyes and a loathing quirk to his mouth. "I trust you realize that no-one is going to ask for you?"

Castorius had to swallow. His eyes flicked to Sybille who was staring at him with her cold smile.

_Well, perhaps not 'no-one'._

Castorius nodded his head repeatedly as a sing of acquiesce. "You don't give me much of a choice, Your Highness."

The King smiled. "I'm glad that realization finally dawned on you." He stood up. "Falk here will provide your with the necessary information. I trust you'll be glad to hear I'm giving you free hands to best decide how to convince Ulfric." He looked at Castorius mockingly, said, "I'm sure this one thing I can trust you with," then stepped off the dais, and started walking towards his chambers.

Well, at least he didn't seem to dismiss Castorius entirely—for what ever it was worth.

"Your Highness," Castorius called after the retreating regent. "How will I be able to walk the streets of Solitude unnoticed? Surely people will wonder why I'm at large again."

Torygg had explained it all, how there never had been any Stormcloak attack. It had been a decoy to get Castorius away from his execution—which itself, he was starting to doubt, had been but mummery. They'd still be surprised to see Castorius unshackled, however, with his head still firmly propped atop his shoulders.

The High King turned back to regard him with contempt, and snorted. "Do you think anyone cares?" he asked. "You will find that nobody will even recognize you. That's just how people are." He continued walking. "No, as far as they are concerned, you are already dead."

As Castorius looked after the retreating Torygg, he though, _Maybe they are correct to think so._

He turned, and was startled to find Sybille standing right next to him. Amused, the court wizard flashed her teeth. "So, you're a free man," she said.

"Such as it is," mumbled Castorius.

"It's a shame you and I didn't have a change to get to know each other better," Sybille said in her slow, serpentine way, looking him from head to toe. "You strike me as a man of good... _taste_ " She flicked her tongue across her upper lip.

For a while, Castorius could do nothing but stare at her. "Yes, w-well," he said. "Perhaps some other time."

_Now, why would you go and say something like that!_

"Yes," Sybille smiled. "Perhaps." She gently stroked Castorius' cheek with the back of her hand, winked, and then quite unhurriedly walked after the High King.

Castorius made no attempt to hold back a shudder that time.

Now that he thought of it, whatever it was that awaited him at the hands of Ulfric, he was happy to get away from Solitude.

 


	5. At Large, By And Large

Torygg had not been kidding. As Castorius had walked the streets of Solitude, nobody had given him as much as a second glance.

Well, a few women had, but that was to be expected.

But, in the main, everyone had just been skimming the pavement as if nothing at all out of the ordinary had ever taken place. Castorius had heard it said that, of all animals, fish had a peculiarly short memory; that they just about lost all recollection of things that had taken place just seconds ago, no matter how traumatic.

Perhaps, he reflected, plebs were the same.

He was sitting on a low cobblestone fence by a guard-tower just outside the city, munching on a Juniper Berry Crostata he'd snatched for a quick lunch. Despite the fresh-out-of-the-oven crunch of the crust and the highly pungent snap of the fresh-picked berries hitting just about all imaginable spots after weeks of near-definite culinary drabbery, it would of course be nowhere close to a sufficient feast. He was saving himself, though, for he anticipated a more satisfying meal lurking in the near future. Nothing quite matched the sweetness of the fulfillment of a pleasure delayed, and he was looking to pillage all the forborne enjoyment stashed within that particular cache.

Though, obviously, the culinary sort was not the only sort of flesh he anticipated rejoicing in. The thought of the soft, warm folds of feminine dimensions was enough to send his entire body into a state of aching. It was _long_ overdue!

At that moment, as Castorius distractedly stuffed the last morsels of the pastry into the confines of his maw, a young woman of salient proportions sailed right past him, as if conjured by his roused ribald mind. The woman's purple-and-green gauze dress was light and skimpy in fabric, perfectly suited for such a warm summer noon. The hem just about reached the knee, allowing for a charitable view of the well-formed smooth legs, the skin of which was so pale as to reflect the rays of midday sun right back at it, rivaling with the star in brightness, practically one-upping it. And as the sun gave life, the sight stirred its own within Castorius' amorously deprived physique.

The rest of her had also been put together with care, and the snug-fitting cut of the gown didn't leave much quarter for guessing. Auburn hair framed her delicate but strong-cast features, and cascaded in voluminous curls about her freckled shoulders. It waved in interlocked layers as she walked, further tousled by the soft breeze.

The sort of feeling captivating Castorius right then he supposed the closest to love he'd ever get. The shallowness of the notion did not escape him, but there were times a man and his fate simply had to shake hands and learn to get on.

The woman, noting his stare, then briefly returned it. A knowing smile appeared on her lips, and she gave Castorius a not-entirely unappreciative look, scanning in a matter of seconds his own undeniably firmly-shaped form before continuing on her way down the path to the left leading to the Solitude docks. The swing of those well-rounded hips may have picked up an extra sway at the face of Castorius' yearning gaze, as she sashayed down the slope with self-assuredly disenchanted casualty, like any care in the world would without question step out of her way upon encounter.

There was nothing for him to do but to stare after her, until all possible care had been taken to ingest every last drop of the near-divine vision.

No, a divine vision would have come far behind. There was a paradise, Castorius knew, and it resided in the nooks and crannies of the artworks of mundane design like the one now disappearing behind a bend on the ascending path.

He wondered if he should go after her. Surely everything else could— _should_ —wait.

"Not bad, huh?" It was a voice behind him, startling Castorius out his reveries.

A tall and slim man around his mid-thirties with neatly combed dark-brown hair, dressed in worn-out black robes, smirked at Castorius. He winked an eye, the lid of which drooped slightly, and nodded after the now gone apparition. "Like the look of that, huh?"

Lewd as he may have been, the _nudge-nudge-wink-wink_ type of chatter partaken of by concupiscent men looking to bond in their shared depravity had never rubbed off on Castorius. Nonetheless, he'd gotten sufficiently proficient pretending at it upon challenge; just enough not to evoke their scorn, and to shake their caddish schoolboy-waggery off his back.

So he twisted his face as a mirror-image of this sneering lout's self-pleased cast, and said, "Yeah, I wouldn't mind a bit of that!" in his best brute-voice. He threw in as extra spice an impish little chuckle, complete with a click of his tongue and a grossly exaggerated wink.

He was just about to congratulate himself on account of this thespianic feat, when the face of the other man suddenly assumed a seriousness verging on gravity. "She's my sister," the man said flatly.

_Oh._

There was a stretch of silence right then, with nothing but crickets and the wind.

"Um, sorry," muttered Castorius awkwardly, the man staring at him with the angriest lack of expression he'd seen. He was quickly weighing his chances of beating this guy in a brawl; then trying to figure out the last time he'd ran really fast. "I, uh, didn't of course intend to—"

But the explanation was cut short by a sudden burst of air scratching its way out the man's nostrils. His face convulsed, and he folded up, taken by a fit of guttural cackles.

Castorius stared at the man, blinking. "Um . . ."

The man howled, thumping on his thigh. "Oh!" he managed, between whelps. "You should have seen yourself." Finally, wiping his eyes, he gave Castorius an almost pitying look. "She's not my sister," he said. "I've never seen her before in my life."

"Oh," was all Castorius could think to reply.

"Do you think," the man said, calmed down now, "that were she my sister, I'd be here talking to _you_? Huh?"

"Well—"

"No, I think not. I'd have better things to do with my mouth, if you catch my tenor."

Castorius frowned. "Sorry, what?"

"Ah!" the man breathed, already moving on to bigger and loftier things. "What a beautiful day we're having, eh?" He closed his eyes and breathed in deep. He went for his satchel and dug out a tanned leather-canteen. Unstoppering it, he offered it to Castorius. "Drink?"

Castorius put up a refusing hand, and shook his head. "Thanks."

The man looked at Castorius, mildly taken aback, shrugged and took a long swig. He let out an 'ah,' chugged another one, a third, then tugged the stopper back in the bottle and the bottle in the bag.

"Starts out the day, huh?" Castorius asked—in his mind—neutrally. Trying not to judge, stumbling at the countdown.

Something about drunkards to really twist at his gonads.

The man smiled, evidently oblivious to any sarcasm in Castorius' inquiry. "You bet!" he said. "Never saw the point of traveling this word stone-sober. Seems like what an utter moron would do!" He quickly raised a condescending brow, nudging at Castorius. "No offense, of course"

Castorius managed a unenthusiastic half-smile. "None taken."

"No," said the man, sizing Castorius up. "Of course not." He stuck out his hand. "Name's Sam. Sam Guevenne."

With some reluctance, Castorius offered his. "Janus Castorius."

"Nice to meet you, Janus." The man's grip was firm and sweaty.

Nobody ever called him "Janus." "Castorius, if you please," he said. "Or Castor, for short." _If you must._

The man nodded, still gripping Castorius' hand. "Alright," he said.

When Castorius finally had his hand back, he conspicuously wiped it at the back of his trousers.

"So . . . Cas," the man said, "what's a man like you up to on such a lovely day? Up to no good, I'm sure! Huh?"

Castorius, unsuccessfully trying to evade the man's jabbing elbow, said, "Oh, you know. Imperial business," gesturing at his attire. He had to admit it felt good to be wearing it again, despite how he felt about the thing it represented. But perhaps mentioning the Empire would get this man off his back, as many around here tried to stay as far from Imperial affairs as possible.

Just thinking about it, though, only managed to bring his mind back to the errand ahead. His guts took a dive at the thought. Falk Firebeard—or _Talk Tiredrear_ as Castorius had aptly, if not too cleverly, renamed the man while suffering though his verbose monotone of instruction—had left it quite beyond reasonable doubt this was not to be a leisurely assignment.

Castorius' head still felt rather loose on his shoulders.

"Ah," Sam said, not betraying any sign of being intimidated by the outfit. He produced the most slovenly mockery of a military salute. "Hail to the Septim!"

The Septim Empire had, of course, ended a couple hundred years back.

Castorius flashed a brief indulgent smile, and said, "Well, it was nice meeting you," making to leave.

"Where you headed, Cas?"

"Me?" He quickly fumbled for a lie. "Towards the Pale." Too slow.

"Ah!" Sam's features cleared. "That's where I'm bound, too." _How did I guess?_ "What a pleasant coincidence!"

That, of course, it was not.

Castorius tried to think a way out of the predicament. He did not feel like listening to this fellow the entire way to the Pale. No doubt he was full-stocked with amusing anecdotes and tall-tales, all fished straight out of the fumes of the flagon. Castorius' mind was running on empty, though. Between the blood just slowly returning to the higher regions of his anatomy, and the dread of the pending execution still thumping in the back of his head—the memory of the earlier attempted head-extracting cleaver still fresh as pastries—he could not for the life of him think of anything to say that might sufficiently discourage Sam.

He cursed inside—why had he been damned with such good manners? "Oh sure," he said, the peppiness of his own voice grating his ears, "could always use some company, I suppose."

True enough, only not this kind.

"Great!" Beaming, Sam looked about. "So, how are we traveling?"

Firebeard had afforded Castorius a letter of attorney with which to lease a horse from the Solitude stables. "Well, _I'm_ going to take a horse," he said, a flicker of hope igniting that this might be his ticket out of the thicket.

No such luck. "Alright," Sam said. "Lucky chance, I've got my own."

"Ah." Castorius hoped he didn't look too crestfallen on the outside.

"Sure is nice to have someone to talk to on the way!" said Sam blithely.

As Castorius revealed his teeth, he felt he may as well have been grimacing in great pain. "It sure is!"

 


	6. The Company You Keep

It was no use. Castorius supposed he might as well have mercy on the exasperated sigh boiling inside him and just offer it a way out. While he was at it, he also made a point of permitting the old eyes to roll back and up towards the top of his skull.

Not that Sam was like to notice anyway. He was way too much enraptured by his own tales of caddishness and cowardice, told with such vigor that it was as if they'd never before been received by a pair of eager ears such as the ones Castorius was now doing his damnedest to turn off altogether —with minimal imaginable success.

It was exactly as Castorius had predicted, too. He'd known from the get-go what this fellow was all about. The man had practically proclaimed it out loud with his entire being. Castorius wondered if there was anything about this guy beyond what met the eye.

Well, there were his stories, for one, which mostly met the ear. And none too gently, either.

Each yarn came complete with own its tangents and byways, going round and round their precarious yet predictable merry routes, however always returning to the ever-recurring themes clearly closest to the heart of the narrator himself: carousing and coupling.

It had started with a brief account of Sam's past fortnight, initiated by Castorius' well-intentioned, but obviously badly misplaced, question: "so what do _you_ do?" The time-period in question Sam had, in his own words, spent "wasted like big pair of balls on a monk", thus explaining the fact that his memories of it were fragmentary at best.

"Well, the best fragments I recall!" he'd guffawed, then went on to describe them in detail.

Once it had been sufficiently established what an indefatigable conquistador of skirts the man indeed was, and how ferociously unquenchable his thirst, he'd moved on to more general matters. Namely, to start with, anecdotes of the similar life events and adventures of people known to him. This went for enemies and friends alike, though, based on his description, it was for the most part hard sledding trying to tell apart those two categories of affiliation.

Then, as they'd passed the town of Dragon Bridge, crossing the overpass so mentioned in the town's name, Sam had confided to Castorius the lewd taxonomy of the Dragons'—or the _Dov_ 's—mating practices, many of which had purportedly carried a remarkably steep death-toll, mere serious injuries set aside.

Upon passing a ravished carriage—the horses dead, people nowhere in sight—Sam had given his delineation on what had most likely happened to the commuters. At that point, Castorius had admittedly not only been bothered by the man's wagging tongue, but been positively shocked by the vivid, nauseating details of his speculations. The way he'd done it was the worst part. How he'd described scenes of murder, rape, and torture—with the exact same insouciance as he'd been retelling the smutty yet basically harmless minutia of offhand brothel-visits—had for a moment made him sound less like a loose-jawed whore-monger and booze-hound, and more a callous and inhuman sociopath.

At least he'd not seemed particularly pleased by such images, but simply interested—if in a particularly disengaged manner.

After such a dark dive, it had been like a breath of fresh air to return to the themes of tail-chasing and befuddlery. The latest in the succession of which was a no-holds-barred narrative about Sam's last brief visit to Cyrodiil, upon which he'd patronized a bordello, and there bedded "the most honest to gods corpulent harlot on the four corners of the wide green Nirn." Castorius, contrary to his better judgment, had to admit that that one had had its more amusing moments. He'd even cracked a smile or two that he'd not had to altogether fake.

The nearly—or entirely—unremitting mouth-running had of course dried the man's said orifice, and he was presently draining the last drops of his canteen. "Ah, shucks!" he said, tossing aside the empty thing. "Knew I should have reserved more!" He slanted Castorius a look, begrudgingly smacking his mouth. "So, not a drinking man, huh?"

Castorius lifted his shoulders. "What can I say?"

"Hmm," Sam muttered. "I don't trust a man of no obliquities."

_I'm not exactly begging for your trust, friend._ "Oh, I've got 'em, alright! Make no mistake."

"Really? So, what's your vice?"

"Vice" was not like to be the first moniker Castorius would sling at his propensities. But in his mind it still very much outshone the tired old guilt-laden conception of "sin" the self-flagellatory subtype of the spiritually-minded were so fond of bandying about.

Because, after all: why would the gods have given the mortals the ability to enjoy the meager measures of their perishable flesh, if not to go for it? At least he _thought_ it was the gods who'd done it. Who else?

Unfortunately, though, religion by and large bored him to smithereens.

"Well," he said, "you might guess."

"Ah!" Sam's features cleared. "One for the wenches, then."

Castorius replied with a conciliatory smile. Guilty _as charged._

Sam waved his finger at him. "I knew it, you know. The moment I lay my eyes on you. I said to myself, 'Sam. Now that there is a man even _you_ could learn something from.' Am I wrong? Huh? Tell me I'm not wrong."

Castorius laughed. "You're not wrong, Sam."

Sam gave a delighted giggle, like a little girl, then asked, "When was your first time?"

"Well, I'd rather not go there." replied Castorius.

"Oh, come on! You can—"

"I was twelve."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Oo!" He grinned. "Not bad, not bad. And her?"

Castorius cleared his throat. "Twenty."

Sam settled for an appreciatory whistle for that one.

"Suffice it to say," said Castorius, a tingle of pride on his cheeks,"that I was a very precocious child." As a whole, he had few memories of his childhood. Perhaps only that one. Could have been worse.

"Though not overtly pre _cautious_ , I take it," Sam said.

Castorius snorted. "No." Suppose some things never changed.

"Ever been in love?" Sam asked, a question as unexpected as it was logical.

The answer was sufficiently provided by the shake of Castorius' head.

Sam did not seem interested in pressing the issue further, and they enjoyed a rare and welcome respite of silence.

_Love,_ Castorius thought, as if it were a swear-word. He'd seen with his own eyes men killed over such foolishness. And even a fairer number doomed to a miserable survival. There was no change he'd ever temper with such a surefire recipe for disaster. Seeing his share, he'd always taken all possible care not to get entangled in that particular web of woe. The species of spider came to mind, in which the female ate the male right after coupling. Such was the sad fate of the androgenic arachnid. Everything necessary had been extracted from the poor bastard, so he had to go. Obsolete.

That would never happen to Castorius. In fact, he'd made it certain that were someone to simply use and discard, it would be him. He could charm them, he could entertain them, could even love them in sense—perhaps keep going back to them—but he would never allow for himself to be caught by them. Never.

Sometimes it happened more neatly then others. Many of the women knew the nature of their involvement, shared his non-committed stance, and didn't even try to make anything more of it. But then there were those that didn't, who did try.

So obviously there had been a time or two that he'd been forced to break someone's heart. But by morning he'd already usually feel better.

"What are you thinking about?" Sam asked.

"Nothing." Castorius shook his head.

"I bet I know."

Castorius met the man's stare. He had a sly grin on him. "What then?"

"That broad back in Solitude," Sam said. "You're thinking how you'd like to give her one. Huh?" He laughed. "I know cause that's what I'm thinking, too." He licked his lips. "Mm, mm, mm, have to say they don't come so fine none too often, the skirted mortals."

Castorius tried to pay the man no mind. _In a way, I guess, it's nice to be in the company of someone who makes_ me _look like the gentleman,_ he thought. He had, of course, in his way always deemed himself one. Nowhere did it say a gentleman was supposed to be virtuous. Did it?

"Yes, siree," Sam went on. "The drink, it puts me in a restless mood it does. I believe tonight I will find me a place to spend some of my pocket-money. Oh yeah."

"I bet you will," Castorius said, unenthusiastic.

"You do?" Sam asked, shooting a sideways look with one arched brow. "Are you a betting man, by any chance?"

"Nope, can't say that I am." Was that even a lie?

"Ah, too bad," replied Sam. "Always love a little wager, myself."

"Why do you ask?"

The sly look had returned. "Why? You interested?"

"It depends." Castorius didn't quite himself know what he was doing.

Sam bared his drink-stained teeth. "You like pranks?"

Now was Castorius' turn to cock a brow. "Pranks? What am I, twelve?"

Sam laughed. "We're all twelve inside," he said. "Twenty, thirty-five, seven thousand; don't make no difference."

"I'll not argue with you there," Castorius muttered. Mainly he was deeply regretting having pressed the issue at all.

Sam, appearing to catch Castorius' drift, snorted softly. "Not with me, then?"

"Sorry. Not really my thing."

"That's alright," replied Sam. "Guess I'll have to find someone else."

"Guess so."

"Let me know if you change your mind."

"Oh, don't you worry about that." It was not likely to happen.

"Ah!" Sam let out a hacking cackle. "Oh, that reminds me!"

Castorius drew breath. _Here we go again._

However, it seemed as if he could thank his lucky stars. There would be time for no more stories, for even if he had all but completely lost track of to their position, his eyes now picked up a very welcome sight. It was a signpost, just coming up at the side of the road, proclaiming: "Morthal".

He was saved!

"Uh, Sam," he interrupted the man. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to stop you there." He was, of course, not sorry in the least. "This is my stop."

"Huh?" said Sam. "We're not to the Pale, yet."

"Yeah, I know. But I have to make, um, a service stop."

"Ah!" Sam's expression took on a knowing glint. "I see. You old dog!"

"I've no idea what you're talking about," replied Castorius.

"I'm sure you don't!"

They stopped at the crossroad, the sharp turn to Morthal to their left. The path sloping down towards the town was scantly visible underneath all the mire. All around them the ground was covered in gray slush, despite it being the middle of summer.

"Guess this is where we part," Castorius said, while simulating something like a prayer in his mind that Sam would not come up with some excuse to follow him.

To his immense relief, then, the other man just nodded. "Suppose so." He reached out to land a light punch on Castorius' shoulder. "Stay out of trouble, huh? Or don't!" He winked, clicked his tongue, and spurred his horse onward. As he went, he broke into an off-key song, singing with a raspy tenor. The lyrics, it scarcely needed to be added, were racy in nature.

_Well, that was relatively painless_! Though Castorius was glad to be rid of his loud-mouth of a companion, there was still no doubt that—all things considered—his day so far had shown a clear upwards course. Suppose when you got out of bed with the thought that it was to be the very last time, and when it then turned out that—contrary to your anticipation—you got to keep your head after all . . . well, there scarcely seemed much point in complaining. Castorius felt as if each breath of open air drawn into his lungs was another chance to turn things around.

It scantly even mattered whether or not he was merely deluding himself. For, if a delusion it was, it was a sweet one.

Castorius rode cautiously down the muddy slope of a path, the horse's hooves sinking into the muck with sucking, squelching sounds. The town of Morthal came into view. It was a collection of two-storied houses with thatched saddle-roofs, clustered around something like pond of swampy, smelly water, connecting at its northeastern corner to the surrounding marshes. A faint fog hovered in the air, smelling of swampland. Some scattered heavy and wet flakes of slow fell ungracefully through the air. They lost their own color and merged into the sludge instantly upon contact with the ground.

It was a small town, and sparsely populated, so not too many people were about. Most folks you saw were the guards patrolling the muddy streets, and an odd citizen here, another there, going about their business. Nobody seemed particularly interested in Castorius' arrival, though he did get shot with a couple passing, halfheartedly disapproving glares. The normally none too welcoming attitude towards strangers mixed with the displeasure of laying eyes on the Imperial colors, and so Castorius' uniform no doubt added a crease or two to the scornful frowns afforded to him.

Not that such a thing carried any weight in his mind at the best of times.

He got off of his horse, and walked it on the planks of the pier surrounding the body of water, which provided something like a dry walkway to the houses residing beside it. The wood was covered by a layer of mire brought in by the boots of the inhabitants.

Castorius stopped in front of one of the houses, tied the reins of his horse to a pole of the railing at its front. He took a deep breath, and stalked up the stairs. He stopped at the door, and prepared himself. In this house lived a relatively affluent merchant who, like his kind often did, had the habit of staying out of town on business, traveling widely all across Tamriel.

Castorius straightened up his uniform and rehashed the lines he'd long since memorized. He'd need them ready at hand in case the man was home. "Sir, official Imperial business." He cleared his throat and deepened his voice. " _Official_ Imperial business, sir . . . official _Imperial_. . . "

It would have to do.

He shook himself from head to toe, gave the door three confident pummels, and waited.

After two dozen or so escalated heartbeats, the lock clicked and the door creaked open. Behind it stood not a middle-aged, puffy-faced affluent barrel-belly at all, but in its stead a slim, black-haired beauty in her mid-twenties. She wore a quizzical expression, and appeared somewhat surprised when taking a look at Castorius' attire. Despite it being midday, she looked like she had been pulled out of her sleep—with dewy eyes and disheveled hair, dressed in an expensive-looking silken nightgown.

Castorius said nothing, just raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

The woman then let the door open up all the way. She stepped aside, giving him an expectant look.

Not home, then. How fortunate!

After a casual look about to see whether he was being observed, Castorius eagerly entered.  
He did not really even care if someone was watching.

Once the door banged shut, he took an assertive step towards the woman. He reached out, and pulled at the lace bindings at the front of her gown and the woman did nothing to stop him. The gown came loose, releasing a pair of voluminous breasts with large, brown nipples.

Castorius closed his hands around the circuit of the warm, heavy flesh and gave a gentle squeeze, feeling the concise, lumpy texture underneath the soft skin. He smiled, and a long-held, ragged breath was released though his nostrils.

A faint smile played at the corners of the woman's lips. "Where have you been?" she asked.

Before there was time for Castorius to let any answer out of his opened mouth, the woman was all over him, shoving her tongue inside it. He pressed his now-invigorated crotch against her, and felt a hot shiver.

He pulled his mouth away from hers and looked into her hungry cobalt eyes. "Nice to see you, too, Alva," he breathed.

It was no lie.

Alva, making no reply, reinserted her tongue, and started pushing Castorius towards the bed in the corner of the room. Never discontinuing to eat away at his tongue—like she'd been kept hungry for weeks, and was planning to devour it—she started to undo his uniform. Once his breastplate clonked on the floorboards, she suddenly pulled back, frowning.

The woman slapped Castorius hard across the mouth. She gave him a hard stare. "Where _have_ you been?"

Castorius smiled, face stinging. He tasted blood, but the taste was sweet in his mouth. "I've missed you," he said.

Once again, no lie.

A ferocious grin spread across Alva's face. "Oh, I bet you have!" She shoved Castorius hard, toppling him on the bed. She then dropped her gown next to the breastplate, and dove right after him.


	7. A Dinner for Two

A delightfully piquant salty aftertaste in his mouth, Castorius had even more anticipation for what was to come next.

After they had spent the better part of an hour making love—for that it was what he chose to call it, even if that was stretching it in terms of accuracy of description pertaining to the factual content of the transaction—there was no more prolonging the unavoidable. Castorius' stomach demanded all the equivalent gratification and nurture as had just befallen his nether colleague. And it, alongside with his crony Palate, was about to receive an indulgence nearly worth the past days of drudgery and squalor.

In other words, it was time for some food.

One nice feature of Alva—in addition to her shapely breasts and her fully-curved posterior—was that for a woman she had a very good grasp on preparing a tasty meal. She also shared Castorius' enthusiasm for eating well, and it fortunately looked as if the fuel she ingested went straight into those full, pleasing to both eye and touch proportions of her form.

She laid the trencher on the table, food steaming and emitting a vibrant aroma that—now that his other urges had been duly sated—set Castorius' whole being in a state of anticipation.

The main course of today was boar, chopped into pieces sized about half a fist, roasted while wrapped in thin slices of bacon—a method called barding. The idea of the bacon was to give the naturally dry meat the juiciness it begged for.

The food was excellent, consistency of the meat just perfect, and the two distinct aromas of pork played together in a smooth harmony—the boar taming the overtly greasy nature of the bacon, and the bacon itself lending the dry boar some of its succulence.

The wine that went with it, however, left something to hope for. It was alright, but just that. Unimaginative, without dimension or variety. It had a single flavor at the first mouthful, and it never went anywhere. Bulk, in a word.

Castorius found himself pining for the wine made in the arid and temperate climate of Colovia in the south of Cyrodiil. Yes, that would have been just perfect for boar.

Alva smiled at Castorius, returning him to here and now. "You didn't tell me you were in the military," she cooed, obviously not entirely displeased by this revelation.

"I didn't?" Castorius could have sworn he had. But then he scarcely had any memory of what lies he'd fed this particular woman.

"Nuh-uh," Alva reprimanded, a sly smile on her, "you told me you worked as a fisher."

"Ah." So that story-line. Castorius only employed it very occasionally, as it hardly impressed most women. "Well, I _do_ fish . . . " He'd caught a small roach on line and sinker once. "At times."

Alva slanted a look under her sharply drawn dark brows, as to say, "come on, now."

"Tell you the truth," Castorius said. _More like anything but._ "I'm not at liberty to reveal details." He tapped the side of his nose. "Top secret Imperial business." He hoped that in the likely case of her not buying it, the whole thing might pass for a jest.

But Alva just pursed her lips, impressed, and evidently quite excited as well. "Well, I'd never have guessed." She took another bite of her food, but kept her eyes on Castorius. He thought she looked at him sort of funny now, but did his best not to make anything of it. Had he spoken in haste?

After some minutes of silence, save for the two chewing mouths and the hearth crackling in the background, Alva took a sip of her wine, then set the goblet down. She gave him a wide smile, her teeth stained purple, and said, "I like the uniform, though. Makes you look very manly." She reached a hand over the table, placing it atop Castorius'. "And _very_ handsome. Almost regally so."

"Mm hmm," Castorius muttered, drinking his wine.

Alva leaned in closer, and said in a half-whisper, "Maybe you could be my prince."

Castorius nearly spewed his wine on the woman—sent to coughing as the wine lost its sense of direction on its way down his tubes.

"You alright?" Alva asked, pulling back her hand.

"Oh sure, sure." croaked Castorius between hacking, beating at his chest. He took a long drink of water. "I'm fine."

Alva leaned back and studied him, half of her looking as enraptured as just a second ago, the other half with a dawning pensiveness. "You don't like the prospect, then?"

That was clearly an attempt for a set-up. Castorius would never fall for one of those. "But what of your husband?" he said. Guilt, that generally worked like a charm.

Seemed to be the right approach, too. "Oh, I know!" Alva started "It's just—", then looked away, chewing on her lower lip.

The age-difference between Alva and the husband in question _was_ quite steep. It did not exactly strike Castorius as a marriage based on love, or even passion. And those were some nice clothes that she liked to wear . . .

Alva turned her aggrieved eyes back to him. "It's just, he's away so much. And when he is back, well—I don't know if I quite know him anymore. He can be snappy and cranky, and . . ." she paused, "frankly quite mean."

"He _hit_ you?" Castorius felt a stab of anger. He was not the bravest, most noblest of men, but it took a special sort of coward to—

"No, no!" Alva hastened to say, "Nothing like that." She looked at Castorius with the most earnest look he'd seen on anyone for quite some time. "But while I normally fear each time he's away, fear he will not return, then on others . . . " She sighed and stared at the table. "Other times I wish that he would _not_." She slapped a hand over her mouth, like she'd let escape something she'd not meant to. Her large eyes widened to saucer-sized. "Oh, does it make me a monster to speak like this?" Her eyes on Castorius had the desperate clinging of someone about to drown

"No, no—of course not!" Castorius soothed. He'd laid eyes on monsters in his time, and none had come with beauty like Alva's. A certain bleak-skinned witch from Solitude popped to mind. "You're no monster. It's perfectly natural to feel that sometimes." Castorius, a bit at a loss, was definitely far from his own are of expertise. He wasn't sure if he'd chosen his words right.

They seemed to be enough for Alva, though, as she was smiling again. "Nice of you to say that," she said. The dread in her bearing seemed to vanish in thin air, and just like that she was back to normal.

A little something had changed, though: the adoring nature of the look she gave Castorius looked to have further intensified. Then she _was_ having her third goblet of wine . . . "You're always so nice to me," she said. "It's rare to meet someone like that."

_Uh oh._

Castorius finished up his goblet. This party seemed just about drawing to a close. Alva grabbed the flagon and proffered it towards Castorius. He lifted a fending hand. "No thanks, I've had plenty."

Alva, cocking a brow, said, "You've had half a goblet."

"That's plenty for me," replied Castorius.

Alva grunted softly, then refilled her own goblet, still halfway full. She took a long drink, giving Castorius an affectionate glance over the rim. Her smiling eyes were alight with entertained tenderness. "You're a silly man," she said, finally putting the goblet down, and gave a little giggle. She picked the goblet up again. Another gulp, and her smile was washed away. "But also a nice man."

_Uh oh!_

Suddenly this was not going too well. _A nice man_? In Castorius' mind, there was only a very limited number of uses for such a creature. Another species of spider sprung to mind—one in which the female was not content to simply eat the male after coupling, but would lay her eggs inside him. And, once the eggs hatched, the hundred little creepy-crawly spider-babies would then devour him.

Alive. From within.

A minor panic stirred inside him. He hastily finished up his water. Then he slammed his palms on the table, puffed his cheeks, and said, "I'm afraid I have to keep going, Alva," trying his best to play it cool, and not reveal how he was really feeling.

"Oh no!" Alva said, sounding alarmed. "Don't go yet!"

The look on her face only served to firm up Castorius' resolve. "I'm afraid I have no choice," he said. "I'm on a mission, you see." He started to rise.

Alva reached her hand over the table to grab his. Her fingers were soft, and Castorius' determination wavered a fraction. _Oh no you don't!_ But he thought he felt some hesitation radiating from the lower offices.

Alva, as if readily reading into this specter of apprehension, smiled. "You could stay just one night? You never have before . . ." Her lips puckered up to a feigned pout.

_Aha!_ Guilt. So obviously two could play at that game.

Luckily, Castorius was immune. Clearing his throat, he said, "Yes, I know. And I'd like to stay—I _really_ would. But perhaps some other time. See—"

Alva stopped him—at just the right time, too, for he had no idea what he was going to say—by pressing one of those soft fingers on his lips. "Hush," she whispered, and slowly started to slide down on her seat. She sank under the table, her lips gently parted and sporting a playful smile. Her head then disappeared from view.

"What—" Castorius frowned. Then he felt a tug. "Oh."

There was still some food left on the plate in front of him. He figured he might as well finish it, since the way it looked now he'd be sticking around just a little while longer. It was not too oft, after all, the two dominant forces of his life were getting their dues paid at the exact same time. He could count maybe only once or twice before.

He thought the whole situation was a bit like a snake devouring itself.

Or perhaps a dog chasing its own tail.

Castorius slowly chewed on his food, breathing very deeply. In and out, in and out. Alva was admittedly very good and minding her teeth. Castorius smiled between bites. Outside, a ray of sunlight was forcing its way through what had seemed like an impenetrable layer of mist.

Sure enough: despite everything, the day so far just kept getting better and better.


	8. Lost Cause

"Gods-damned incompetent fool, " Castorius muttered. The sad fact was, though, that while he was certain of that particular assessment being right on the money, he didn't know whether it applied more to Falk Firebeard or to himself.

As it was, the spot marked "Stormcloak camp" on the map given to him by Firebeard told him that right at the moment he should be standing in the middle of the said encampment, having a pleasant conversation with old Ulfric himself. But instead, the briefest of consultations with the actual situation conveyed a sorry vision of a cold, wet, and deeply unhappy Imperial soldier, lost in the middle of shrubs, rocks, and evergreens—ankle-deep in sludge and slush, and rehashing the storage of available curses in his mental repositories.

In his other hand he held the reins of his horse, who showed absolutely no sign of caring one way or another about his concerns.

"That untrustworthy little motherf—"

Castorius' analysis was cut short, as he thought he heard a howling among the trees.

Just the wind.

_Oblivion can take the wind!_

If there was anything positive to be said, it was that his retreat from Alva's place had been a relatively painless one—despite the fervent attempts of the woman to hinder him, practically begging on her knees for him to find a way of staying the night. And though he generally held in contempt any notion of a person degrading themselves in front of _anyone_ else, he was hard pressed to deny that Alva's beseeching had touched favorably upon his somewhat dented sense of self-worth.

The only way for him to earn his retreat had ultimately been to promise his swift return, and that at that time he'd spend the night, or even several.

It now looked as though it would be completely impossible for him to return to that house again, and indeed he would have to stay as far away from Morthal as he possibly could. It was too bad, for he had really enjoyed Alva's cookery. Among other things.

But life, as they said, went on. Presumably, at least.

Having then put aside any thoughts of his possible demise looming in the near future, Castorius had been in quite a lighthearted mood upon arriving at The Pale. He'd even deviated from his usual ways and whistled a few notes, so much promise had the day thus far shown. Certainly it was a sign of some sort. His attitude had been correct, and he'd set up his intentions in such way that he'd come out of all this a winner. It looked obvious that the fates had great things reserved for a man of his abilities and ambitions. The world was malleable, and would only reward those who set themselves up for success, and would without fail recognize those worthy of its gifts and blessing. Man made, Castorius had been fairly sure, his own destiny.

Well, shit on that, it seemed!

He cursed again. All around him he saw nothing but woods—tree upon tree upon _stinking_ tree! Not the surroundings of _his_ making, to be sure. Certainly not the surroundings of his choice. And not at all how it was supposed to be! He'd turned off the path exactly where the map had indicated he should. He was as sure as he'd ever been of anything that this was the exact spot where the map claimed the Stormcloaks should be found. He was perhaps not the most soldierly of soldiers at the best of times, but he did pride himself on account of his impeccable sense of direction, and on his ability to find any place, no matter how strange the surroundings. If it had only been properly marked on a map accurately drawn.

So the fault was obviously Falk's, Castorius was sure of it. It had to be. The map was of the standard kind, so it was not like to be mistaken. That should have perhaps made him feel better, but it didn't. How was it possible the High King had for a second hand someone so utterly clueless about such a basic matter? Surely Ulfric stood a chance if this was the best kind of help Torygg had to go by.

Gods forbid if . . .

But no—it couldn't be. A cold stab of foreboding chilled Castorius' insides. Could this have been a set-up? Maybe the High King's—or maybe _Ulfric's_ —men were stalking him out here in the trees, just waiting for a clear shot so that they could cleanly and without witnesses take out the supposedly traitorous—

Castorius got distracted by his horse starting to whinny and rear besides him, and had a hard time just to keep control on the reins. "Hold on, you behoofed half-wit!" he scolded the beast. It would have none of it, but instead pulled back so violently Castorius had to let go of the bridle, lest the leather cut into the flesh of his bare hand. The animal reared, almost kicking him in the head, then dashed out, disappearing behind the trees.

"Go on then, you bastard!" Castorius yelled after it.

He had to bury his face in his hands. What made matters worse was that, even though it'd only been an hour from his last meal, his stomach seemed to once again be growling.

"This is not happening," he muttered.

" _Grrrrrll!_ " The stomach replied.

"Oh, just be—" _Now, wait just one minute._ Castorius' hands dropped. That had _not_ been his stomach. The growl had come from behind him, and unless it was his arse making it, well then...

" _GRRRRRRrrrrllll!"_

Castorius swallowed and, very slowly, turned around. And, as he did, he found himself face-to-muzzle with a pack of three hungry—and quite formidable—looking wolves. They stood in an arrow formation, heads bent down like they were ready to spring at him at any moment. They were obviously sizing him up, and—apparently judging him to be just-about bite-sized—kept flashing their canines at him, giving out what looked like rehearsal bites of the air.

"Umm," said Castorius slowly, "That's a good doggy, now," with something like diplomatic calm.

Needless to say he did not feel calm in the least.

With that, the wolf at the lead barked at him, causing him to flinch. "Alright, alright! Not a doggy, then. I take it back, I take it back!"

Castorius took a couple steps back, which was all he could until his back hit a tree. Damn this forest, why'd it have to be so full of them!

Against his better judgment, he attempted to reason with the beasts. "Let's take it easy now," he said. "You don't want to do this, as you will find I don't taste—"

The leader of the pack jumped at him, and Castorius squealed like a little girl.

There was a swooshing sound and a sort of dull thud, and the wolf hit him hard, knocking the air out of him and toppling him to the ground.

"Off of me, off!" Castorius screamed in a somewhat less than butch fashion, trying his damnedest to keep those deadly fangs away from his jugular.

It would seem, however, that the beast had no such ambitions left, for out of its skull jutted a feather-fetched wooden shaft. The arrow had clearly killed the wolf before it had hit him, for its face was frozen in a hateful assailant snarl.

The remaining two wolves—a touch inconvenienced by the surprising demise of their leader as they clearly were—still very much seemed to have Castorius on their agenda. They kept advancing with predatory wariness, teeth bared. He fumbled about his belt to unsheathe his standard-issue Imperial sword. So far the only sort of action the sword had seen was Castorius flamboyantly showing off the very impressive, but similarly very useless, fencing-forms from his training to some or other member of the opposite-sex. Those were the only kind of opponents he'd ever truly plunged any sort of fighting weapon into.

His hands suddenly uncooperative, he could not for the life of him unfasten the clasp keeping the sword in its scabbard. The wolves, as if noting their chance had come, chose that moment to make their attack.

Another arrow hummed through the air and found its target in the other wolf's neck. The animal whelped and jumped in the air. Taking a couple wobbly steps, it collapsed on the ground, taking its final deep breaths as blood rapidly seeped onto its gray pelt.

The remaining wolf could no longer afford to discount this new airborne nuisance. It still had its hungry yellow eyes on Castorius, but shifted about nervously, aware that a threat had emerged somewhere on its flanks.

Another shaft flitted by right above the beast's head, drawing an aggravated bark out of it. Yet another hit a stone right next to its right paw. That one finally did the trick, for after a brief moment of reassessing its situation, the animal turned on its paw and started running in the opposite direction.

It was, however, too late for the retreating canine, as its escape was cut short by a group of assailants. It was three men, dressed in brown armor, topped by turquoise capes. "Skyrim for the Nords!" one of them yelled.

_Not for the wolves, I take it then_ , Castorius thought. He didn't feel at all inclined to argue with that at the moment.

The wolf met with its destiny in the form of a Stormcloak sword, cutting its head clean off with a swift, powerful blow dealt by the largest fellow in the group.

After this last of the beasts had been take care of, the Stormcloaks directed their attention to Castorius still sitting on the ground, the arse of his skirts now uncomfortably wet. It only occurred to him at that particular moment how cold his bare legs had gotten in this climate.

He scampered back to his feet as the Stormcloak soldiers approached him. Two of the three wore face-covering masks, but the one who did not might as well have for all the emotion his thoroughly stony face did not show. Suddenly Castorius felt very immediately the Imperial colors on his attire, like he was dressed as lamb-chop at a costume party of carnivores.

Now glad he'd not had time to as much as loosen the sword on his scabbard, he spread his arms in a gesture he hoped conveyed simultaneous non-aggression and gratitude. "Boy, am I glad to see you!" he cried, and rarely before had he felt lie and truth mix as evenly. "You came just in time, too." He offered a greeting hand to the stone-face type at the lead. "I owe you my—"

The Stormcloak's "hello" came in a form of a gauntleted fist cutting Castorius square in the jaw. He was sent back onto his rear.

Castorius shook his head, ears ringing and stars flashing in his eyes. "Now what—"

He got his eyes open in time to see a boot on it way, directed right at his face.

And that was all he saw before everything went black.


	9. Ever the Charmer

If the contest between the two factions had come down to the quality of weaving in the ropes they used, the score would have been just about even. Both of them had proven themselves quite disagreeable around Castorius' wrists. Perhaps that was the whole idea?

His jaw was still sore where the Stormcloak brute had landed his blow, and he had a headache from taking a boot to the head. His requests for a healing potion had been met with mute scorn, as on the whole his presentation to the camp had fallen somewhat short of warm embrace. Despite his vehement assurance that he was not a spy, there appeared to be no second opinion on the matter that he was precisely that. "If I were a spy," he'd tried. "do you think I'd be as stupid as to dress up like this and come walking openly in your turf?"

Yes indeed, _would_ he? They seemed to largely agree that he would. The only thing Castorius hated more than people holding a low opinion of him was when they were correct to do so.

"We'll let Ulfric decide what to do with you, once he arrives," they'd said. And by the looks on their faces, they had a pretty clear idea of what exactly that would be. Doubtless nothing Castorius himself would enjoy too much.

That last bit hardly needed adding.

Castorius worried he might be left with an ugly bruise, a scar even. Growing up, he'd never entertained the idea of being particularly pretty, but then at some point started to hear that from people—admiringly from women, with disdain from men—and slowly had started to believe it himself. Sooner than he'd realized, then, it had become a genuine concern of his that something might happen to diminish the agreeable nature of his visage. At points he'd even wondered if his appearance might be his one redeeming quality, without which it would be revealed what a reprehensible toad he truly was.

The prospect was chilling, and one he'd learned to sweep aside with steadfast resoluteness. So that's what he did now, too.

He was sitting on a wolf pelt—so _something_ good came out of the foul beasts—inside one of the tents at the camp, hands tied behind his back and ankles together. And to make sure he would not swiftly and surreptitiously _hobble_ away out of the middle of a military camp swarming with Stormcloaks, they'd also left behind a guard. He should have felt flattered. _Flattened_ was more like it.

It had to be said, however, that the one thing in which the Stormcloaks one-upped the Imperials was their selection of sentry. A blond woman of stern yet alluring features stood besides a brazier, warming her hands in the orange glow. A tuft of wheat-blond hair stuck out from under her iron helmet, and, under a furrowed brow, blue eyes stared at the sizzling coals like they were part of some tough-to-break riddle she was just on the brink of solving. She had her face sideways to Castorius, offering him a good view of her nose. It was prominent and slightly hooked at the tip, the kind Castorius—being from Cyrodiil, the native land of handsome beaks—had a strange weakness for.

The woman took no notice of him staring at her.

Castorius cleared his throat to get the woman's attention, but to no avail. He tried again, slightly louder this time, saying, "So, lovely weather we're having."

Not the winning commencement, perhaps.

And, true enough, the woman simply kept staring at the brazier. But the cheek-muscles did clench a trifle under her pale skin.

"Though, I don't suppose it, uh, changes much around here."

The tick of expanding metal, the faint hiss of the coals. Other than that, silence. Castorius drew breath to say something else, playing his role entirely by ear.

"Do not speak to me!" the woman snapped, still not deigning to look at him. Castorius' line, what ever it might had been, died on his lips.

He did not, of course, take the first setback for a defeat. Pretending she'd never said anything at all, he continued, "You seem very confident. Like you really know what you're doing."

Women, they liked compliments as much as any man, he knew.

Perhaps not this one, though. If anything, her passivity looked to take on even more antipathy than before. She said nothing, nor did she look at him. But her breathing sounded angry, and her expression was the night sky shrouded by rain-clouds.

Castorius hadn't been lying, he realized. The woman _did_ seem to know exactly what she was doing, and he did not much like it. A cold shoulder was not what he'd been used to from women, especially from young ones. Perhaps at times from some of the older, less attractive ones, but that was inconsequential as he'd never wanted anything from them anyway.

So perhaps a slightly different approach was required. "You _may_ have to interrogate me a bit, you know," he said.

Nothing.

Castorius sighed, and leaned back against a tent-pole. "Well," he said, "any time the mood takes you. I'll be here."

He did his best not to ponder too closely on the exact significance of "here." _Yes, sure!_ he though sourly. _Ulfric's set up some sort of makeshift military camp at The Pale, your sources say? And he will be coming there himself, the man who knows me and, for all we know, will likely take me as the most poorly-disguised attempt to spy on him anybody anywhere with half a wit—_ if indeed _that_ much _—has ever tried? Of course I'll go throw myself at his feet! What could_ possibly _go wrong!_

He'd escaped death at least once today—possibly twice when you added the wolves—but did not know how far he could count on his good fortune. Not to mention his earlier confidence in the guiding hand of providence, or whatever in the names of the eight Divines it had been.

If a man's fate really did lie in his own hands, Castorius' seemed to have its head resting uncomfortably heavily on the goodwill of others. Was he rapidly becoming what he'd always most despised?

Revolted by the thought, he heaved himself into a forward-leaning position, trying to sweet-talk the lovely if uppity lass some more. "You know, I really think you and I—"

"What?" The woman's head snapped in his direction. Her voice was cold and sharp, enough to cause him to flinch. "What could you _possibly_ have to say that would be of any interest to me?"

Castorius had to admit that was a tough one to reply to.

That did not keep him from trying, however. "Well, I think you and I probably have a number of things in common." _Yeah, like what?_

The woman sneered at him like at a jar of moldy peach jam. "Yeah," she said, " _like what?_ "

"Um," Castorius head was rattling empty. "Well, there's the—"

The woman suddenly sprang up and darted towards him. Castorius inadvertently tried to back up when he saw she now had a knife in her hand. Not a small one, either.

The Stormcloak squatted in front of him, waving the blade in his face. "What?" she demanded. "There's the what?"

Nothing came out of Castorius' mouth, but he was only glad nothing came out of any other end, either.

The woman's smile was a bitter one. "And d'you know what _I_ think?" she said. "Hmm?"

Castorius tried to smirk back, a pitiful attempt. "I would very much like to know," he croaked.

The woman's smile melted away. "Oh, I very much doubt that."

Castorius found a little bit of his earlier composure, as the knife's blade was still dangling in the air instead of removing anything dangling of his. Perhaps he also managed to salvage a bit of his dignity, thought certainly not by much. "Please, indulge me," he said, and didn't squeak it either, contrary to what he himself might have anticipated.

"I think, " the woman said, pressing the tip of the knife to his cheekbone, "that you're nothing but a self-serving dog. A piece of scum who would sell his own mother just to get ahead."

Castorius had a hard time not airing out his surprise. This girl had talent, it had to be admitted. He tried to think of a reply but just swallowed. Air, mostly.

" _And_ the most gods-awful spy I've _ever_ heard of," the woman went on.

_Aha!_ While she'd been pretty much spot on in her initial assessment, Castorius was unable to argue with her. But this later one gave him an opening, as he was _technically_ not a spy. After all, what sort of spy was it who was _meant_ to cause suspicion? "I'll have disagree with you there," he said—barely getting anything out, his throat being so parched.

The Stormcloak frowned. "The dog part or the spy part?"

Castorius paused. How much could he say without giving away anything crucial? What was it even exactly that he shouldn't reveal? Complicated business, lying. "Could I get a drink, by any chance?" he inquired.

The woman raised a brow, as if he'd just asked her for a kiss. She reached behind her, however, produced a canteen, pulled the stopper out and poured some cold water in Castorius' mouth.

Drinking, he looked the woman straight in the eye. She was still all frown and scorn, but Castorius thought he might have spotted a dawning breach in her defenses. It almost felt as if they had a little moment there.

The woman then pulled away the canteen, causing Castorius to dribble on his chin and clothes. He drew water into his lungs and coughed.

So much for the moment.

"Speak," the woman said, as impatient as ever. Though she did keep her knife out of his face this time around.

Recovered, Castorius tried to smile, more or less even managed to. "So, you decided to take me up on the offer, then?"

His guard slapped him across the face. A solid blow, too. Good technique.

Castorius, cheek burning, decided to not yield. "I confess, I confess," he said in a shrill voice.

The woman was not amused. Castorius flinched, waiting for another whack.

It did not come. The woman simply sighed, starting to rise. "Why am I wasting my time?"

"I'm not a spy!" Castorius blurted. Supposedly it was the right thing to say, as it was the exactly the thing he was going to tell Ulfric, too. After all, this woman was still probably much less likely to have him hanged. Supposedly.

The Stormcloak's look was one of utter disbelief, but at least she'd stopped retreating.

"It's true," Castorius said. "They were going to execute me, the Imperials. But I ran—I _escaped_! And now I want to join the rebellion." He gave the woman his best earnest puppy-dog look. "I'm on your side!"

The woman raised a brow, examining Castorius. "So you're telling me you left the Empire, just to join our cause?"

Castorius nodded eagerly. I he could convince her, certainly Ulfric wouldn't be much harder.

"Do you know how many times," she said. "I've heard that before?" Something about her clearly had started to soften.

"No."

The woman shook her head sharply. "Not one single _Talos-damned_ time!" The cold frigidity of her baring was back with a vengeance. "After all, why would you highfalutin, hoity-toity Imperial dog-buggerers, with your heads buried so deep up your own arses you're practically on the verge of implosion, care half a shit for the political status of Skyrim?" Her eyes with their dagger-sharp glare took on the hue of utter-contempt blue. "Why would you trade your cozy bunks and your regular warm meals and your legionary circle-wankeries for the discomforts and hardships taken up by those who are actually still fighting for something worthwhile? You know, something bigger than yourselves? And I don't mean your thick, over-blown skulls!"

Castorius tried for a second to arrange his words into a compelling argument, then realized it was no use, and tried, "The girls here are prettier?"

Who was to say it wasn't a lie?

The woman scoffed, and turned around. "What a waste!"

"Wait!" Castorius said. "I'm sorry!"

The woman stopped but did not turn.

"I, uh... I," _Don't think, just let it come._ "I apologize." _Good, good_. "I'm just new to this, is all."

The woman turned, hesitant.

_That's it, come to daddy!_

Castorius rehashed the earnest puppy-eyes. "And I'm not quite used to women of your . . . caliber." _Careful, now! You don't want her to think you're calling her large_. "What I mean is..." _What, what,_ _What?_

Then it suddenly came to him, and he smiled freely. "The Cyrodiilian women, they are just so _weak_! Then I come here, up North, and lay my eyes on you ladies . . ." He nodded appreciatively. "So strong! I instantly fell in love! And to think—" his certainty faltered a touch, but he pressed on, assumed a solemn expression. "—to think of this proud people, suppressed under such a corrupt, mongrel of an Empire—the thought of it crushing underneath it the pure, rugged spirit of this land . . ." He shook his head. "I simply could not bring myself to live with the thought."

_A bow, big round of applause!_

Either that, or a swing of a big old axe.

It helped, Castorius had found, a lie when one injected the untruth with a healthy dose of his own genuine feelings. The Empire _was_ a weak-minded mongrel, he entertained no doubts about that. But then he also knew it was the exact same way most Nords tended to see things.

The expression on the woman's face was all but indecipherable. For what it was worth, at least it did not strike Castorius as outright dismissive. "So, what you're saying—" she said, her voice softer now. She walked back to him, kneeling down. "—what you're saying is that in a way it was _love_ that changed your mind? Your new-found love for our simple, honest, hard-working people?"

_Well, perhaps not the_ people _, exactly,_ Castorius thought. He nodded and said "Yes!" his voice a whisper.

The woman's eyes went wide. She blinked. "Well, that's . . ." she looked down for a second, then back to Castorius. In her gaze genuine delight teemed with warm endearment. "That's . . ." Her eyes hardened anew, and, fast as a viper, she grabbed Castorius' face in a firm hold—surprisingly strong. "That's _by far_ the single biggest, stinkiest load of mammoth-shit I have _ever_ heard coming out of _anybody's_ mouth!" She was speaking, or growling, between clenched teeth. "And, believe me: I've had a fair share come my way!" The look in her eyes now was just about fierce enough to set a weaker man aflame.

Castorius felt rather hot himself. "It's true!" he tried to say, though his cheeks being pinched together by the woman's iron grip reduced his words to nothing but some spittle with vowels in it.

The woman said nothing, just stared at him hard with those hateful eyes. Castorius was overtaken by an acute inability to think of anything redeeming to say.

Right then, somebody peaked their head through the tent door.

His face still in the woman's hold, Castorius' eyes flicked to a chubby flat-faced man with placid and beady brown eyes, who, upon having taken in the scene, broke into a jovial smirk.

"Kirsten," the man said. Even his voice sounded pudgy. "Hate to interrupt you, as I can see you're, er, having a moment here."

The woman—Kirsten, apparently—did not let go, nor release Castorius from her wrathful stare. "What is it, Hans?"

"Well," said Hans. "Nothing much, I suppose. Just, it seems as though Ulfric has arrived."

Castorius suddenly felt like a fox with its leg caught in a trap. Again. He raised his brows to Kirsten. She held him a moment longer, than let out a contemptuous scoff and pushed his face back, letting go. She wiped her hand on her trousers, scrunching up her nose, and rose.

Hans pointed at Castorius. "Bring the spy."

"The spy" no longer felt the inclination to argue.

Kristen used her knife to cut the rope around Castorius' ankles. She lifted him up easily, much stronger than she looked, then pushed him towards the door.

"You two are about to be real embarrassed." Castorius said with feigned self-confidence, voice not even breaking too much.

Hans slapped him in the back of his head. "Shut up, you!"

Castorius bit back a reply he did not have, and took a deep breath as he was led outside to meet his fate.

_Here we go, then. Moment of truth._

 


	10. Storm under the Cloak

As he was—rather rudely—shoved ahead towards Ulfric Stormcloak just dismounting his palfrey, Castorius' sense of worry gained momentum. The leader of the rebellion did not look like he was having a good day, and it was starting to look like the alleged spy soon wouldn't be either.

The sun beamed down with blinding brightness, still high up but already falling towards the west. The air had turned crisp and dry, and despite a fresh gust of wind there was a profuse smell of sweat hovering about.

The Stormcloak camp wasn't much larger than Torygg's throne room had been: a collection of six tents made of hides scattered in the midst of evergreens, a smithy to the side, a fireplace around the middle with a cooking spit and a skinned skeever carcass skewered on it, next to it a boiling pot of meager looking stew. Perhaps all together a score of Stormcloaks were positioned here and there, looking more soldierly than Castorius might have expected based on his earlier observations. This Hans fellow being the one possible exception.

Ulfric barked some orders to a pair of soldiers, who saluted and scurried away in haste. For all intents and purposes, it appeared as if the Stormcloaks were already preparing for war.

Hans waddled to his disgruntled leader, muttered something in his ear while gesturing towards Castorius. Stormcloak's frown gained a couple of extra furrows as his eyes met with the prisoner's. He nodded, and waved a hand. Hans promptly retreated. Or as promptly as was possible for him.

Castorius swallowed. Ulfric Stormcloak was not the kind of man whose habitus called one to lie to his face. He gave you a sense that he would never himself be dishonest with you—and that he would likely beat you to death with your own severed arms if he caught _you_ being dishonest with _him_.

_An honest man,_ Castorius thought with disdain. He'd known a few of those. Lying bastards every single one of them.

Ulfric had proud features in his unassuming man-of-the-people sort of way. A strong, prominent nose under slanted gray eyes. The eyes had a slight natural droop to them, and this gave them a certain air of sadness. That impression was further amplified by the world-weary quality in their gaze, which Castorius took for practiced. After all, the man was just barely into his early thirties—how much could there really be to be wary of? Or perhaps the look owed its origin to whatever had left those deep scars in the man's red-bearded cheek.

The most remarkable feature of Ulfric's eyes, though, was the way they gave you the acute sense of a sharp mind working behind them. There was that discerning watchfulness in the man's stare, like he without exception noticed and took note of everything you might do your damnedest to hide from him. Castorius supposed that was an actual feature of the man, and would indeed be hard to fake—though he also suspected Ulfric had a way of over-emphasizing it for dramatic effect. Either way, that look was the most prominent thing in the man making him seem so dangerous. That, and his calm, which appeared to hide behind it a highly tempestuous nature you wanted to do your best not to provoke.

Perhaps that's why they called him Stormcloak in the first place—because the man you saw on the outside hid away the storm within.

Or perhaps that was just silly.

As Ulfric approached him, Castorius—both his head and his heart pounding now—tried to hastily line up the back-story in his head. The details felt utterly lost to him, and the more he tried to fish for them, the worse they got dispersed. The stern look on the rebel-leader's face served to dispel all logical though from the head, leaving but the instinct to survive.

But instinct alone was not enough. It simply told him to run or fight, and neither of those was an option. Why had he ever agreed to this? He shoved back the all too obvious answer.

Ulfric stopped right in front of him and, to Castorius' shock and surprise, smiled. And it was not the predatory sort of smile, either, but one of warm camaraderie. He even went as far as to lay a large hand on Castorius' shoulder, drawing from him an involuntary flinch.

Castorius studied the shorter man's relaxed features in a state of outright confusion.

"My friend, am I glad to see you!" Ulfric said.

"You . . . are?"

"Yes, of course! How went your mission with Torygg?"

"I . . . " looking about, Castorius' was not the only confounded frown. He caught a glimpse of Kristen, whose jaw hung open a little. That gave him the boost he needed. "It, um, went very well!" he said.

"I'll say!" Ulfric laughed. "Hear you avoided the famed Axe of Ahtar, you did!" He patted on Castorius' shoulder with a heavier hand than seemed necessary.

"I was not aware it was that famous," replied Castorius.

"Well, not yet," Ulfric said, wrapping his arm around Castorius' neck. "Not yet. But I've a feeling it will be." He only then noticed the ropes still around his new pal's wrists. "Someone get these off of him!" he snapped, startling Castorius. "I will not have my important ally treated like a common criminal."

_My_ what _sort of_ what _, now?_

A Stormcloak swiftly came to fulfill his commander's order. Castorius, for all of his stupefied bewilderment, took the chance to shoot a triumphant glance at Kristin standing at the sidelines. She frowned back.

Castorius thus released, Ulfric prompted his supposed new ally to walk with him, a hand on his shoulder. When they were more or less out of earshot of the main group, Ulfric, still smiling, said under his breath, "What did you tell them?"

Castorius looked at the man, confused. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing. Just that I'm not an Imperial spy."

"And?" Ulfric demanded.

_What does he want to hear?_ "And, well, that I escaped their execution and came here to join your cause?"

Ulfric nodded his head, satisfied at what he'd heard. "Good, so you didn't muck-up too bad."

"Sir?" The military mode of speech came mostly as an instinct.

Ulfric stopped to regard Castorius. His expression was somewhat sterner now, though there still wasn't any visible trace of anger in it. Most importantly, the man did not seem intent on commencing an execution of his own. At least at this very instant. "Listen to me: I want you to stick to that story, and only that. Don't go improvising any more. Is that clear?"

Lost for words, Castorius nodded.

Ulfric continued walking. "Good."

Castorius walked after Ulfric—who more or less appeared to be going in circles—while curious, and admittedly somewhat displeased, pairs of eyes all around the camp followed them.

After a moment of silence, Castorius said, "I must confess I'm a little confused."

"Hmm," replied Stormcloak absentmindedly.

"I mean, do you not believe me when I say I'm here to join you?" It seemed a particularly stupid question to be asking directly.

Without breaking stride or making eye-contact, Ulfric replied, "Does it matter?"

"Sir?"

Ulfric came to a halt. He looked Castorius up and down, taking his number as if he were just another piece of equipment. "Isn't it obvious?"

"Um," Castorius hesitated. This was one of those moments to not appear too thick. Nor too clever. "No. . ."

Ulfric smiled as if to a child. "You, my friend, are an ass—" his head abruptly snapped to the side, like something caught the corner of his eye.

An _ass_?

Ulfric turned his head back. "An asset, Castorius."

_Ah._ "How, sir?"

Ulfric's frown returned. "Are you playing with me?" he asked. Before Castorius could get a reply out of his opened mouth, he went on, "A man of your position—with your knowledge of the imperial army?" He laughed. "Why, we'd _kill for_ a chance to get inside your head!"

Castorius couldn't help to swallow. "Uh huh."

Ulfric's hand was back on Castorius' shoulder, and he ushered him to walk on. "There really is no time to go over the fine details right now. I'm not planning an open move against the illicit Imperial rule for the better part of a year at least. So we can take our time."

So he _was_ planning to turn this into an actual war. Torygg would be pleased to find out. Or perhaps he'd be furious. What was his policy with messengers?

Maybe he already knew?

Ulfric and Castorius had walked back to where they had started their aimless rounds. Everyone was where they'd left them, mostly standing around, waiting to be told what to do. Kirsten, sitting down for some grub, was eyeing Castorius with a furrowed brow, while clearly pretending not to. When Castorius caught her eye and smiled, she spat into the fire, then looked away.

Castorius sighed.

"Soldier!" Ulfric snapped.

Castorius jumped. To his mild surprise, Ulfric's eyes were on him. Instinctively, he assumed attention.

Stormcloak nodded approvingly. "Pay attention! We may consist mostly of regular people, but we are still running an army here!"

Driven by yet another instinct, Castorius made the Imperial salutation, flinching instantly afterwards.

Ulfric merely smiled at him. "We still need to get you used to the new command, but I'm confident you will become an integral part of this regiment."

What could you say to that? "Thank you, sir!"

Ulfric's military rigidity melted away, and he thumped Castorius' shoulder like an old buddy might. "We're all glad to have you here."

The quickest of surveys around the camp revealed that was indeed not the case. Castorius considered pointing this out, thought better of it, said, "I'm glad to hear that, sir," even flashing an obsequious little smile.

"Gunder!" Ulfric bellowed, and Castorius started once more. He would really have to stop doing that.

From out of nowhere sprung a soldier so upright, and so tight of form it looked like he might pop a vein at any second. "Sir!" he barked.

"See to that, ah, _Corporal_ Castorius here is sufficiently briefed about his first assignment.

_Corporal._ Promoted so quickly! Corporal Castorius—he had to admit liking the clang of it.

"And . . . " there was a flicker of uncertainty on the young soldier's otherwise supremely composed countenance, "what would that be, sir."

"Why," Ulfric grinned shrewdly, "Operation Crimson Tusk, of course."

What was _that?_ Surely nothing good.

The overzealous young man's heels snapped together. "Yes sir!"

"And prepare the man his horse. I believe I caught a sight of it grazing behind the rocks there." Ulfric's eyes went to Castorius' attire, and his nose crunched up a nearly imperceptible degree. "And won't you find him some proper gear. He cannot be walking around in his _spy_ outfit, now can he."

Ulfric gave Castorius a wink, but it was difficult to decipher the intention behind it. Castorius felt uncomfortably much like being played for a fool.

"Dismissed!" Ulfric announced, waving his hand.

Now it was Gunder's turn to be shoving at Castorius, this time towards the tent where the paraphernalia was kept. As he took a quick glance back, Castorius could see Ulfric looking after them. The Stormcloak leader assumed an encouragingly assuring expression the second he caught his eye.

But what had that been in his eyes just a second before? Suspicion? Connivance?

Was Castorius simply being paranoid?

"We are glad to have you by our side," the young man said, interrupting his musings.

Castorius raised a brow. "Really?"

"Oh yes!" the lad's nod was a bit too ready and his face somewhat too earnest for him to be simply toying with Castorius. It was admittedly a good feeling to finally have someone unconditionally and without reservations welcoming him to this potentially—and in action quite concretely—hostile environment.

"Thank you," Castorius said.

"Yes, indeed!" enthused Gunder "It's an undeniably good thing to have a trained Imperial soldier at the forefront once the actual fighting will start!"

Castorius felt the infant of a smile on his face slide off, plop to the ground, and diffuse into the mud. "Oh."

"I'm sure you have lots of tricks up your sleeve to help us defeat those Imperial bastards." Gunder's eyes positively gleamed.

"Yes, sure," Castorius muttered.

Why not.

 


	11. Jack of All Traitors

Essentially, wearing Stormcloak armor wasn't too different from wearing the Imperial kind, except for one important feature: it sure as _Oblivion_ was a lot warmer. This made sense, of course, but it struck Castorius that he'd not before thought to question the Empire's refusal to upgrade their attire into something more suitable for the northern climate. And so far he'd been in the habit of questioning them all.

Almost certainly this was due to their very Cyrodiilian mulish stubbornness, and their standard wrongheaded demand for uniformity. But whatever it was, it was yet another call on their part Castorius did not hesitate to call absolutely idiotic.

That list just kept getting longer and longer.

Now, his legs nice and warm under the pair of leather trousers, he though back to those couple winters he'd served here so far, suffering though the frigid winds and the biting frost. Each spring, he couldn't have given enough praise to whatever incompetent fools ruled the universe, once the sun started to offer some actual warmth instead of just sitting up there in the sky like some painted-on decoy—mocking the folks down below fooled into thinking that the thing might have served any sort of purpose besides just hanging pointlessly in the firmament.

Yes, he could have certainly used these things earlier.

As warm as he might have physically been, though, a chilling sense of uncertainly gnawed at his guts. How could this possibly end well? He was not trusted by either of the factions whose trust he was supposed to gain, and he didn't even know which one it was he was ultimately supposed to betray.

It was hard enough trying to keep up on who wanted him dead more badly.

That, in itself, wouldn't have even been all that bad, if he'd only had some clear idea of why they wanted him dead to begin with. If Torygg didn't really think Castorius a traitor, and if he didn't actually know about him and Elisif, then why send him into the lion's den? Castorius had not for a second bought the whole "spy for the Empire" story, and since the High King had himself admitted to not believing that Ulfric would be fooled by his purported conversion, what other reason to order him here if not to be taken out by the Stormcloaks?

And, on the other hand, if the original purpose was simply to have Castorius killed, why bother interrupting the execution? None of it added up.

It wasn't any better with Ulfric. For all his chumminess and jovial good cheer, Castorius knew now—after having had some time to reflect—that there had been a clear subtext to his conviviality. The fine print in Stormcloak's deceptively warm acceptance of Castorius into his army was loud and clear: you will not breathe my air for long. There had not been any briefing as to the nature of the "mission" he'd been sent on, but it was bound to be something nasty. Castorius half expected to be attacked at any moment, maybe take an arrow from nowhere—just like those wolves had.

And yet: if they wanted him dead, why save him from them in the first place?

Frustrated by the circular nature of his mind—unable not only to find satisfactory answers, but confused about the questions themselves—Castorius scratched his head under the loose-fitting Stormcloak helmet. The heads of these northern mooks being so gods-damned large, they'd not had anything in their stores to comfortably fit around his own sophisticatedly-shaped skull. And there'd been no question of them even considering Castorius' perfectly sensible request to simply wear his old helmet. It would scarcely be the first thing to mark him somewhat different from your average pale and light-eyed Nord. With his olive skin and hazel eyes, nobody would in a million years take him for a legitimate Stormcloak.

An Imperial fighting for the freedom of Skyrim? Surely nobody had heard of anything _that_ unlikely. And, as Castorius had been taught, when it came to war, odds were pretty much everything.

His behind sat uncomfortably on the saddle, and it seemed to be only through great pains his horse tolerated him on its back. It kept shifting and snorting discontentedly, shaking his mane every other second, as if it could not itself believe what a demeaning load it had been forced to carry—and felt no qualms about showing its distaste, either. Clearly its opinion of Castorius had been lowered since the last time.

He was was some twenty strides outside of the encampment, waiting there to rendezvous with the contact who was to take him on this first mission of his. He supposed he would probably not meet his assassin just yet, but was still not looking forward to this person, whoever it was. He'd generally experienced enough scorn for one day's needs, and that particular art was apparently the Stormcloaks' second nature. Little wonder, of course, for they had much less reason to love the Empire than Castorius did—and his own storage was more or less raided to its masonry.

But how to explain _that_ to these hard-faced, butter-wasting, swill-swigging, manner-challenged mountain bumpkins?

As fate might have it, at the precise moment he was thinking about what he'd give to see a friendly face, a familiar voice came from behind him. "Well, well," it said. "You can thank your lucky stars Torygg didn't want to defile his nice chopping-block with your no-good, cowardly, and—apparently—treacherous blood."

Castorius did not need to turn around to know who it was, but he couldn't stop his eyes from bulging out of their sockets upon registering the sight of Roggvir riding his horse beside him. The Nord was wearing the exact same Stormcloak armor as him, and on top that a grin so smug it could be used as an exemplary piece at the Academy of Arrogant Pricks.

"Roggie!" Castorius cried. "What in the—" His brain was waging a war against itself in the face of the incongruity, while the smirk on the lips of his old comrade-in-arms was getting ever wider. Castorius gestured at the man's gray armor. "How?"

Roggie's eyes twinkled with mirth. "You think you're the only one can pose for what they're not?"

"And that would be . . . ?"

Tilting back his head back, the man bellowed a laugh. "You mean, am I a Nord posing for an Imperial, or an Imperial posing for a Nord?" His grin had a devious edge to it. "I guess the same question could be asked of you, my friend."

"I honestly have no idea what's going on anymore," said Castorius.

Roggie jerked his head. "Let's move. We'll see if I can clear some of those clouds out of your sky, eh?"

" _You're_ the one supposed to take me on this 'mission'?" Castorius asked, spurring his horse after his friend. The animal moved reluctantly.

"That's me," Roggie said.

"And you—" Castorius took a quick look around, lowered his voice,"you're another one of Torygg's spies?"

With a shrewd sideways look, and doing nothing to appear surreptitious, Roggie replied, "Or am I originally one of Ulfric's spies? You're the clever one, you tell me."

Castorius did not feel the least bit clever right now. "Don't mess with me, Rog. I'm confused enough as it is."

Roggie let out another laugh. "I beg to differ. I'm confident there are myriads of layers of confusion I'd be able to pile on top of you—and with increasing levels of amusement, too."

It had ever been Roggie's pleasure to pick on Castorius, and that had clearly not changed over the past few weeks. How could someone not all that smart himself make a man feel so stupid? It was a rare gift, to be sure.

Castorius responded like he always did, simply stared at the man with tired resignation.

"Alright, alright," Roggie finally conceded. "As usual, you make it too easy for me."

Castorius shrugged. "Never claimed to be a difficult man."

"And that's exactly what I like about you!"

Castorius frowned at the smirking man, trying to detect a slight, couldn't, and gave up. "So?"

Roggie in turn looked around, before replying, "I do work for Torygg, in a sense."

"In a sense?"

"Well, in the same sense I work for Ulfric."

"That doesn't make it any clearer."

Smirk. "The bottom line is: I work for me."

Now that was something Castorius could understand, could easily relate to. Though it was hardly the thing he'd ever expected to come out of this man's mouth. While never showing the same sort of vehement loyalty and zeal that Captain Aldis did, Roggie had always struck Castorius as a genuinely loyal guard with not much more ambition than to do his work right, and maybe get on Castorius' nerves in the process. But an opportunist like himself?

"You look surprised," Roggie said.

"Me? No! Well, yeah, alright. A little."

Roggie laughed. "And they say you can't bullshit a bullshitter!"

"And who would this bull in question be?"

"Bulls, my friend, are abundant upon this land. It is simply a question of who is man enough to grab the horns."

Castorius frowned. "This analogy just stopped making sense."

"Sense! That's your problem. You always want everything to make sense."

"I'm not entirely sure that's a fair—"

"You fancy yourself something of hustler, don't you Castor?"

He thought about it for a while. "Well, I've had my moments."

Roggie snorted. " _Amateur_ , is what you are!"

As far as Castorius was concerned, that may just have been the most insulting thing he'd heard that day, and that was saying something.

Before he could reprimand the Nord, however, the man went on, "But stick with me and you will find out exactly what you can achieve if you keep your eye out for the price."

"Stick with you? Thought we were running an errand for Ulfric."

"We are," replied Roggie. "We most certainly are. But let this be your first lesson. A man can easily be in two places at once while standing in the same place."

"Is _that_ supposed to make sense?"

Based on his self-satisfied expression, to Roggie, apparently, it did. "Take me for instance," he said. "Where do I stand? Torygg thinks I'm his boy, Ulfric thinks I'm his boy . . ."

"And let me guess," Castorius said tiredly, "you're nobody's boy?" Was this blowhard really the same person he thought he'd known for this entire time in Skyrim?

Roggie wagged his finger at him. "See—clever." The smirk on his face was slowly making Castorius want to punch it. "I knew you would understand, though."

"So . . . you're somehow playing Torygg and Ulfric against each other? Manipulating them to, what, ignite an actual war?"

Roggvir blew out air dismissively. "As if!" He shook his head, like it was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. "How do you imagine _that_ would work?"

"I don't know. Thought you were supposed to be the superior hustler here all of a sudden. You've certainly played me for a fool all this time."

Roggvir narrowed his eyes, still smirking. "Do I detect jealousy?"

"No," Castorius said curtly. "Not from me."

Uh, huh," said Roggie. "Whatever you say." He twisted his head to the side and cracked his neck. "Anyway, a war is the last thing we'll be seeing around here. Mark my words."

"That's not what I gather from Ulfric himself."

Roggie's eyes betrayed nothing but amusement. "Is that so?"

"Well, he told _me_ he was probably planning to make a move by the end of the year." Not exactly the truth, but Castorius was itching to rub it in the man's face that apparently Ulfric had trusted Castorius with some information Roggie himself had not been let in on.

But the Nord simply snorted. "If you need any more proof that Ulfric does not trust you for shit, there you have it." As Castorius frowned at him, he elaborated, "Ulfric never tells anyone what he plans to do next. Everybody knows that." He gave a somewhat condescending look. "Well, anyone who knows things, anyway."

"Seems evident the man is planning _something_ , by the way he's gearing up, setting up camps and the like."

"Or," Roggie stretched the word, "he may just be testing Torygg. Provoking him to see how he'll respond."

Castorius shook his head. "I think _you're_ testing _me_."

"Only like a smith tests his steel, my friend."

Castorius' fist was really itching to make contact with those teeth.

"Well, I already feel heated up and pounded at," he said, "I take it the cold water comes next?"

Roggie laughed. "You may be more right than you know."

"Are you going to tell me what you're doing here?"

"It is as you might expect," Roggie said. "Torygg sent me here to spy on Ulfric, who in turn is of the belief that I'm spying _for_ him. Though, I have to admit, personally I'm not at all sure what either of them really think of me."

Torygg was known to keep a careful eye on Ulfric, despite the apparent leeway he'd given him. That had been why he'd sent Castorius to Windhelm in the first place. It made sense, then, that Ulfric should also have his own spies.

But if Torygg thought Roggie was already doing his work in the Pale, why send Castorius? "What am _I_ doing here, then?" he asked.

"Beats me," said Roggie, shrugging.

Castorius' frowned. "What? Surely you know!"

"I swear I don't." He looked genuinely apologetic. "I knew you were supposed to be keeping an eye on Ulfric at Windhelm, and must admit was dumbstruck when they had you arrested. I didn't take you for the corrupt type." The irony of that statement did not escape Castorius, but apparently did the Nord. "So I tried my damnedest to fish out the information as to your incarceration but couldn't get anything out of anyone. People around Solitude can be quite tight-lipped when need be. So I just waited."

"You could have tried freeing me," said Castorius, though it sounded childish to even his own ears.

Roggie rolled his eyes. "Yes, _of course_ I could have. Fought the guard with my bare hands. Maybe fly you to safety at the top of the Throat of the World on the back of a Dragon."

"You could have put out a good word," Castorius muttered.

"Stop being childish," Roggie said. At least he'd stopped smirking now. "The bottom line is: I knew they were not really going to take your head. After all, would scarcely make any sense to execute you for treason."

"What makes you say that?"

"First of all, there's no pretext for it. Nobody's ever been executed on account of any sort of treason that had not at least something to do with somebody losing their life." He hawked and spat in the shrubs. "And second, if Torygg doesn't go after Ulfric, allows him to uphold a personal army, and otherwise pretty much lets him act freely, then why take the head of someone who was merely _dealing_ with the man?"

"A warning?" Castorius tried.

Roggie wasn't listening. "At first I couldn't figure out why they bothered to make such a show of it. But then I realized it was probably just part of Torygg's double tactic to make the citizens loyal to the Empire feel he was doing something, and at the same time scare those who thought of lending a hand to Ulfric."

"That's what I was—"

" _Then_ , upon having a supposedly casual conversation with Aldis, I was finally able to coax it from him that Torygg was planning to send you here." Roggie shook his head, and gave a little laugh. "Oh, Aldis. So manipulable underneath all that hard posturing."

"He didn't tell you why Torygg sent me here?" Castorius asked.

"Nope. But I was quick on my feet. Before they brought you to him, I approached the High King and suggested—pretending not to know anything about your case—that I return to Ulfric for a supposed 'report'. Torygg seemed to suspect nothing, and concurred. Then I rode to Ulfric to let them know you were in all likeliness coming to 'join' him."

"So _that's_ how Ulfric knew!"

Roggie's smirk had returned. "Well, how else?"

Castorius narrowed his eyes. "You _told_ him I was sent by Torygg?"

Roggie's astonishment seemed too spontaneous to be fake, but then who could tell? "I wouldn't do that!" he exclaimed. "Why would I want to get you in trouble?"

Castorius made no reply, but studied his supposed friend with suspicious eyes.

Roggie shook his head disapprovingly, but his smirk had not been entirely extinguished. "I told him next to nothing. Just that you were coming, that I did not know why, but that you had somehow managed to escape and wanted to join the rebellion."

"You told him that? How did you know that was my cover story."

"I didn't! I guessed!" The man's expression was more than a little self-satisfied.

"What else did you say?"

Roggie shrugged. "Nothing much. That I knew you, and could vouch for you. That you might prove useful." He paused, arching his brows at Castorius. "And here you are."

"Useful, how?" Castorius asked, frowning.

"Oh, I fed him a story about you being well connected in the military. Knew about tactics used, strategic points, all that. I explained that this was the reason you could have promised to supply him with Imperial weaponry, too." He cast a knowing, mischievous look at Castorius. "That's what you did, didn't you?"

How did he know that? Castorius did not like this one bit, but there was no use denying it, either. He didn't look Roggie in the eye, just nodded.

Roggie gave a dirty cackle. "Oh, you little weasel! How did you imagine you would pull that one off?"

Truth was, he hadn't. Promises were easy to make, especially when offered good payment in return. Sometimes that was all you needed to do: to have the right intention and the will, and the rest would fall into place on its own.

Other times, well, it didn't.

Eager to change the subject, Castorius said, "So Ulfric doesn't know I'm supposed to spy on him." That, at least, felt like something of a relief.

"I have an idea he might," said Roggie.

"What?"

Roggie shrugged. "He's a pretty clever man, that Stormcloak. I would not sell him short."

"But you said—"

"I said I fed him the story, not that he swallowed it. Could well be he didn't."

Castorius sighed. "Well that's just great!" He shot Roggie a sharp look. "So what good are you?"

"Relax. It's not so simple. If Ulfric knows, it is likely he knows you know, too."

"Huh?"

"And probably that you know that _he_ knows that you know. And that _you_ know that Torygg knows, and that Torygg also knows that Ulfric knows. And that Torygg knows, and that you know, and that you all know that you all know that you all know . . . " Roggie smiled. "You know?"

Castorius shook his head. "No."

Roggie simply rode ahead, as if judging the matter dealt with.

Castorius rubbed his brow. "I have to say all this crisscrossing espionage is really messing with my head."

"You'll get used to it."

"I doubt it."

He was too tired to press the issue any further. He looked at the sky, some individual clouds starting to gather. The wind was blowing cold, and bit Castorius' cheeks uncomfortably. This, supposedly, was summer at The Pale. They were headed North, but where exactly, Castorius didn't know.

"So where are we going?"

Roggie did not turn to look. "We're on a mission to win Ulfric a fleet."

"A what?"

Roggie gave a sidelong glance. "A fleet. You know, a bunch of ships. Made of wood, sails and all that. Move like a charm on water."

"Yes, thank you, " Castorius said. "What does Ulfric want with a fleet?"

"Hmm, I wonder. What could he ever?"

Castorius replied with a stare.

"Well," Roggie then said. "the Empire's got all the ships they need provided for them by the East Empire Trading Company. Ulfric has, what, a shipping boat and an elderly captain with a peg leg? You do the math."

"You only need a fleet if you plan to go to war," Castorius pointed out.

"You got that right."

"Thought you said Ulfric was not going to go to war."

"I did."

"And you're how sure of this?"

"I'm not _un_ sure about it."

"Uh huh."

"Look," Roggie said, turning to look Castorius with an expression like a patient father talking to a yammering child, "it's one thing to plan to be going to war, and another to look like you are. You follow?"

"I guess."

"And Ulfric wants nothing more than to give out the impression that he means business."

"Seems that way."

"You see, he's desperate to assemble a convincing enough military force. He believes that to achieve this completely, he'll need ships. He quite rightly fears the Company's warships, and is desperate to get a countering force for them. Desperate enough, that is, that's he's willing to go to some shady types for it." Roggie grinned. "And this is where we step in."

"We're the shady types?"

Roggie laughed. "Oh no! You're about to meet some people that make you and I look like Aldis in comparison."

The prospect did not sound good in Castorius' ears. He pushed the matter aside. "But, " he began, deciding not to care that even to his own ears he was starting to sound like an argumentative child, "I still don't quite buy it. There's no way Ulfric will be able to intimidate the most powerful military force in Tamriel."

Roggie's face took on an incredulously amused expression.

Castorius frowned. "What?"

"Are you truly that gullible? Don't tell me you've bought into that whole ridiculous self-congratulatory, chest thumping nonsense the Empire spews." When Castorius replied with a nonplussed stare, Roggie rolled his eyes and laughed. "But of course you would have. After all, most do."

Castorius did not feel good being lumped up with "most". "What are you talking about?"

Roggie stared at him for a second. "The Empire's all but broke, Castor. They're running lower and lower on funding for their military, they owe both their arms and legs to private industries they depend on—such as the Trading Company . . . "

"The Company? But I thought—"

"Yes, you thought so," said Roggie impatiently. "You and everybody else. But no, the Company is not funded by the Emperor. If anything, nowadays it's the other way around."

"Wow."

"You said it. Not to mention the Thalmor pressuring him from left and right, imposing their demands like this idiotic ban on the worship of Talos for example. It's really only a matter of time until the Dominion will decide to make their move. Let me tell you, the next Great War will be end of this particular empire and a beginning of a new one. And that one, my friend, will make us yearn for these times. I can tell you that much."

Castorius felt a nauseating cold in the pit of his stomach. "So, what you're saying—"

"What I'm saying is that Ulfric has the right idea. What the Thalmor fear is that the Imperial provinces will one by one declare independence, and then together challenge the Aldmeri Dominion. They need the Empire weak but united. That's why they see Ulfric as such a threat. They would have gotten him out of the picture long before were it not for Torygg."

"Torygg?"

"Yes!" Roggie laughed. "Would you believe it? It's like he has a soft spot for Ulfric, I swear. And to tell you the truth, those two may end up needing each other more than they would ever think. More than anyone would. Personally I would not be surprised if Ulfric ultimately ended up convincing Torygg to declare independence."

"Really? And you base this on personal observation?"

Roggie shrugged. "Among other things."

"Wow."

Castorius had to take it all in for a while. He'd of course known of the uncomfortable relationship between the Dominion and the Empire, but had had no idea the Empire was truly doing so badly. On the other hand, how could he be sure of Roggie's assessment? He didn't really feel like he could be sure of much anything at the moment.

The whole thing felt uncomfortably much like a gamble.

He sighed. Above them, the wind was rapidly rounding up the clouds like a herd of dirty sheep. Castorius hoped they would be getting indoors before it started to rain. In his mind, though, he was fairly sure he'd wind up getting soaked.

One way or another.

 


	12. Beyond the Bale

The sky shrouded in a layer of dark cloud, Castorius felt the first drops of cold water on his face. The wind was also picking up, blowing in from the ocean, carrying that tell-tale signature of salt and fish that always reminded him of what resided between a woman's legs.

In its way the association brought him some comfort, but was unfortunately not enough to dispel the gathering shadows from his mind. Step by step he became more convinced this would not end well, and that strengthening odor might as well have been the scent of his own approaching doom.

He felt like an idiot to have gotten himself into this mess, and scarcely felt heartened by the fact that the man in his company was likely an idiot also.

Castorius gave a scornful glance at Roggie riding abreast him. The air of confidence the man was putting out, that arrogant little smirk on him—they reminded Castorius of someone he knew.  
 _  
Oh gods!_ he thought. _Is that how people see_ me _?_

Roggie's grin widened then, his eyes still fixed in the distance. "Well, well. Look at those sorry bastards!"

About a fifty strides ahead, a somewhat miserable looking bunch of people huddled together against the ever rising wind. Four men dressed in town guard sat on horseback, protecting at the middle of them a man in a heavy, long overcoat.

As they approached the company, Castorius could hear the man in the middle heaping curses and scolds on top of the surrounding men, who took the words with calm composure bespeaking chastisement. Castorius recognized the expression on their faces, was in fact very familiar with it. Likely these were some hardened pairs of ears; used to it all and skillful in tuning out the actual content of the words, mindful only of the moment when they would stop pouring out.

It generally took quite a while.

Around the coast, trees were few and far between, and with the mountains left behind the wind had a free rein. Castorius looked into the near distance, could hear the ocean roaring and the seagulls screaming, but could not get a good visual due to the thick wall of mist that seemed to have come from nowhere.

The people did not notice Castorius and Roggie approaching. Close up, the man in the middle appeared to be an older fellow. "And wipe that smirk off you face!" he was crowing at one of the guards.

"Yes sir!" the guard replied, tight-lipped.

"Hey!" Roggie called, waving a hand. The man's scowling face snapped towards them.

The sight of them approaching did not seem to improve the man's mood. If anything the furrows of his already corrugated brow deepened further. He came across as one of those men with a perpetual expression like they were chewing on something sour, whose permanently displeased eyes never failed to find out each and every fault in what ever they saw. The thin-lipped tight line of a mouth—surrounded by a profuse stubble up to his cheekbones, making him look as if he'd been down on his knees, eating the dirt off the ground—was undoubtedly equally eager to make known the exact rotten nature of the details his eyes picked up.

A turquoise and silver circlet adorned the man's brow but did little to improve the visuals. In fact, it only served to further underline the utter misery of the visage underneath it.

The man scratched at his shaved head, its scalp equally shadowed by stubble, as he disapprovingly studied the newcomers. He chewed at the insides of his mouth, lips twisted as if he was doing his darnedest to keep from bursting into tears.

"Skald, my friend," Roggie said. "Always nice to see your sunny disposition!"

"You," the man, Skald, sneered. "He sent _you_?"

Roggie grinned. "Who else?"

"Absolutely anyone else, I prayed. Should have known, of course."

"Yeah, well. I _am_ well versed in this kind of thing."

Skald scoffed. "Yes, who better to deal with crooks than another crook."

Roggie's levity would not be dented. "You said it. Get along with you plenty good, don't I."

Another scoff. "And who's this?" Skald gestured at Castorius, but would not deign to look at him.

"Fresh blood. Another trooper for the cause."

The old man's eyes flicked to Castorius; just long enough to be thoroughly unimpressed. "And can you vouch for him?"

Roggie snorted. "I can't vouch for _you_. But I've a pretty solid feeling we are going to need this fellow if we're to make this deal."

Skald gave Castorius a longer look now, though evidently it pained him to do so. "You got a name?"

"Cas—"

"Numskull. Got it." The old grump turned his attention to his men. "Alright, you nitwits. Let's get this over with, I got better things to do still today." Castorius did not find that to be too likely, whatever it was that they were about to do now.

Numskull _?_

As they started toward the shore, Castorius and Roggie fell a few steps behind.

"I don't like him," Castorius muttered.

Roggie let out a dry laugh, more like a cough. "No surprises there," he said. "Nobody likes him. I doubt _he_ likes him."

"Who is he?"

Roggie looked surprised. "You don't know Skald the Elder, the Jarl of The Pale?"

"I don't follow politics."

"Oh, you should," said Roggie, "'cause what ever you do, it will follow you."

"If you say so."

Roggie gave him a long, sober look. "I'm going to have to teach you a thing or two, if you're to survive what's coming."

Castorius looked back. "What's coming, then?"

Roggie shrugged. "I don't know. But it's something big, I can feel it. And I'm not talking about just the potential Dominion invasion. Something else."

"Uh huh."

"Oh, you can scoff and ridicule," Roggie said, though Castorius had zero interest in doing either, "but mark my words: things are about to take a different turn. It may happen sooner, it may happen later, but the world you and I know?" He waved into nowhere. "It's going bye-bye."

"Not sure if I should be fearful or excited," said Castorius, even if it was a factitious reply on his part.

No matter how he might have felt about the general order of the world, it was one he was firmly rooted in. Change, almost any change, did not strike him as a desirable prospect in the least.

Only then did it strike him as odd that a Jarl of one of the holds was taking part in this. Did it mean he was openly supporting Ulfric? Surely not, for if anything, _that_ would be tantamount to treason.

But if one of the Jarls was having talks with the man, well, what would stop the others? Despite Roggie's convincing, it was seeming more and more like Ulfric wasn't just blustering, but planning on open rebellion.

Icy water had started to whip their faces, small and sharp drops blown horizontally by the wind, as they came to a stop at the waterfront. The Sea of Ghosts was looking exactly as its name suggested— an eerie white veil hovering above the water, allowing for very poor visibility. Approximately a hundred yards' distance off the shore, the outline of a ship, a hull and a sail, could be discerned. A splashing came from a closer proximity, and Castorius squinted at the foggy water to spy a smaller vessel headed towards them.

Roggie, with his confident as to be arrogant smirk, unmounted his horse. Castorius did the same, as did the men of Skald's guard. The old man himself stared into the sea with his hands on his hips, frowning, as if the water itself failed to meet his standards. He stole a quick glance at Roggie, and Castorius could read a hint of worry in his expression. What was he wary of?

_I don't know,_ Castorius thought. _But it's not making me feel any better, that's for sure._ He took a look at his old comrade-in-arms, whose aspect gave no sign of unease. In fact, the way Roggie smiled into the mist, one might have supposed it was a dear old friend he was expecting to see.

There were voices coming from the boat, mixing with the splashing of the oars in the water, the squeak of the oarlocks. There was a harrowing, gruff one dealing sharp words, accompanied by two quieter, obsequious ones. Perhaps it was Skald's long lost twin brother coming; that would go a long way explaining the man's visible vexation.

Castorius could hear the growl of horkers from somewhere behind him. He'd seen a pack of them lying around the rocky shore, and would have welcomed the strange animals' fat, tusked presence over his present company.

The rowboat beached, keel scratching at gravel. A short, skinny man hopped nimbly to the shore, and pulled the vessel in the rest of the way—surprisingly easily for his meager build. A slurred, ill-tempered mutter in a language Castorius did not recognize came from a dark-clad figure at the back of the boat, responded to by the gentler voice of another man in front of him—speaking the same language, but in a way that rang somewhat more familiar.

The small man did not wait for the others, but surveyed the welcoming committee with evident amusement. He was dressed in just a loincloth and leather gauntlets, but didn't appear to suffer from the chilly weather. Despite his slight frame, he was well-muscled.

After taking a brief survey of the posse in front of him, the man's eyes locked on Roggie. "Greetings! I take it this is the delegation sent by Ulfric Stormcloak." The man's surprisingly elegant mode of speech, delivered in a measured baritone, had a feel of playful irony.

"Indeed it is," replied Roggie, mimicking the man. "Welcome to the Pale, good sir."

The man eyed Roggie for a few seconds, then laughed. "Always nice to see you, Roggvir." he said, sticking out his hand.

"Likewise, Joric," replied Roggie. They grabbed each other by the forearm, like some kind of secret handshake.

"Wait, you two know each other?" Skald cut in, sounding as undelighted by the revelation as one might have expected.

Joric eyed the old curmudgeon with the amusement that came across as his permanent disposition. "And who is this?"

"This," said Roggie, gesturing towards Skald. "is Jarl—"

"Cardamom!" An angry voice interrupted. Or at least that's how the word sounded to Castorius.

"Oh, terribly sorry," Joric said, and reached back to offer a hand to the man stumbling out of the boat. The hand was swatted aside, accompanied by a sharp word that was more than likely a curse.

Joric turned back towards the so-called delegation, smiling. "Allow me to introduce you: Captain Mala—"

"Malaney!" The man himself barked, this time in more or less plain common tongue, and stepped up, pushing Joric aside. He straightened himself, a fairly tall man, and gave everyone there a sweeping look, which Castorius couldn't have characterized as anything but the most arrogant, high handed glare he's seen anyone ever give anyone before. And that wasn't just saying something. It was saying a lot.

The man was an impressive sight in his way. Shorter than Castorius but still tall, broad shoulders and an imposing bearing now that he stood straight. Long and tangled black hair, thickly braided, hung about his shoulders. The delicate elvish features of the Breton were still visible underneath the thickly bearded and threadbare face that had doubtless seen its rounds of scuffles and long nights—and likely days—spent with the bottle. His eyes were of a very dark brown, like a pair of black pearls shining from deep within the sockets, curtained by vaguely slanted lids.

When those eyes met with Castorius'—no matter how briefly—he felt a strange sensation, like something was slightly _off_. An ambivalent and hard-to-grasp feeling about the Captain that rendered him somewhat . . . unnatural, for lack of a better word.

"Captain Malaney," the man finished introducing, inclined his head a touch. "And who may I have the honor of speaking with?" Similarly as his earlier drunken demeanor had given way to a much more composed form, his voice also had softened from the harsh growl to a softer one—though there was certainly still a sharp edge to it. His politeness seemed the impatient sort.

Before Roggie had a chance to say anything, Jarl Skald, visibly disheartened by all these people acting like they were better than him, stepped in front of the odd seafarer. "My name is Jarl Skald the Elder," he proclaimed. "The Jarl of the Pale." He even smiled—an unsightly apparition. "Welcome to the Pale, Captain."

The silly welcoming had obviously not been intended as anything but an attempted reminder of whose turf they were on.

Malaney gave the surrounding the briefest of glances. "Yes, very lovely." He in turned gave the elderly man a wide, toothy grin. If Skald's likeness of a smile had been appalling at best, the Captain's expression was as becoming as the open maw of a shark just about to devour you. And not least because half of his teeth were black. "Where I come from we call this _wasteland_ ," he said. Somehow it came out exactly like a threat would.

Even the hard-bitten Jarl looked taken aback. He appeared to have a hard time replying.

Luckily, it seemed the captain was not waiting for a reply. "So," he said, spreading his arms. "I assume we were not summoned here simply for the beautiful landscape, eh?"

"No, Captain," Roggie started. "You see—"

" _We are here_ ," Skald cut in. He seemed determined to not be swept aside or intimidated, all the while coming across as somewhat sidelined—and positively frightened, "because Ulfric Stormcloak needs ships."

_Well, that there about confirms it._ How could Roggie possibly claim that Ulfric was not planning on open warfare, if he was persuading the Jarls to join in his cause? Castorius gave Roggie his best attempt at an inquisitive glare, but the man replied with nothing but the stupid simper sitting tight on his face. He then looked at Skald, who was doing his best to keep up the haughty air that had clearly suffered from the presence of the imposing—and likely unpredictable—Captain. Skald did not strike him as a man too easily convinced. What incentive could Ulfric have waved in front of his puckered face?

Captain Malaney studied Skald with his black eyes narrowed. A little contemplative smile played at the corner of his cracked lips. "That so, huh?" he muttered, more to himself than anything.

The Jarl, unsure whether or not he'd just been asked a question, simply nodded.

"Ah!" the captain then exclaimed, causing everyone to jump. "A man need ships to fight a war, does he not?" He looked around triumphantly, as if looking for confirmation for his brilliant and novel insight.

"Well," Skald said cautiously, "let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?"

The Captain frowned. "No?" he asked, a shadow creeping into his voice. "You find fault in my reasoning?"

"Well, no," hastened the Jarl. "Of course not. But one needs ships regardless if one is actually planning a war or not." He was clearly searching for the most diplomatic order for his words. "You know, if one is to have a credible military force." His sentence ended in a somewhat questioning intonation. He did not appear to be much of a negotiator.

"And what's in it for you?" Malaney asked. "What are you, a 'Jarl', is it? What's that even mean?" He gestured at the bare landscape, rain flitting down and wind tearing at haphazard patches of long grass. "You govern this particular shit-pile?"

Skald answered by swallowing so loud no doubt everybody present could hear it. He was not doing too well with this.

"Gentlemen, if I may," Castorius heard his own voice say. _Shut up!_

_Too late._ He now had everybody's rapt attention, including the still frowning captain. Castorius swallowed, more quietly, he hoped, then Skald had. He took a step up.

In the corner of his eye he picked up Roggie's widening grin. _I'll deal with you later._

"I believe what Jarl Skald is attempting to say," he started, improvising like he apparently now was in a habit of doing, "is that not before a man has his forces in order, can he begin to assess whether or not he should actually use them." At least he managed to keep his voice level this far. More than could be said for Skald.

"And who are you, then?" A couple of the furrows in the captain's frown were clearly inspired by genuine curiosity.

"Nobody," the Jarl started. "He's just—" The sharply lifted hand of Captain Malaney shut him up.

"My name," Castorius said, his unruly heart beating any which way it felt like, "Is Janus Castorius." He held a pause. "Janus to my friends." And though saying that had greatly pained him, he smiled his best snake-charmer's smile.

Malaney replied with a knowing little smirk. "A pleasure," he said. " _Castorius_."

Castorius fumbled for a way to progress.

Gladly he did not need to, for Captain Malaney waved his hand dismissively. "Ah, enough pissing around!" he barked. "I was just bothering this fellow a little." He gave the Jarl a playful little jab that was clearly painful. He then fixed his gaze on the old man who managed to regain his balance, but not any of the little dignity he'd had. "I know precisely what you want."

"You do?" asked Skald, surprised.

"Of course! What, you fancy yourself special?"

"Well—"

The Captain did not listen. "No, you're not special. You want what every other man under these unforgiving heavens wants. I trust I don't need to spell it out for ya?"

The Jarl made one last attempt to gather his composure. "I want justice?"

The Captain's grin widened to reveal those blackened teeth again. "Oh?"

"Yes," Skald replied, and before he could be interrupted again, pressed on with the last wind of his self-assuredness. "The Imperial rule has run its course. And while I admit some obvious advantages have come from their reign, it has simply started to take more than it gives."

"For example?"

The Jarl cleared his throat. "I'm sure the matters of our province are of little interest to men such as yourself," He paused, as if to see if his words had caused the captain any offense. The had not appeared to. "But there are some things that are hard to overlook—matters too important for the people."

"You're testing my patience. Get to the point."

"The worship of Talos," said Skald. He was sounding less intimidated now, and even something like inspired. "The Empire would not have had to ban it; they went too far accepting that particular clause in the White-Gold Concordat. They should have fought the Aldmeri Dominion in that one. That they didn't says it more plainly then anything: they will always put the peace with the Dominion over the interest of their own people."

It was a pet-peeve of the Aldmeri Dominion, ever playing the most pure-of-faith people in existence, that men believed the Emperor Tiber Septim to have become a god. Another thing to rub them the wrong way was that humans had dared to raise one of their own into their precious pantheon. The Dominion had proclaimed it blasphemy, the idea that a mere mortal should be ascended to such a divine position.

Obviously the fact that it was Septim himself who had originally snatched the power over Tamriel from underneath the High Elves' upturned noses, had its part to play in the supposed religious outrage.

In any case, it remained one of the most controversial parts of the peace-treaty that the worship of Talos had been deemed a crime all across Tamriel. Especially here in the north, where many were deeply embittered about it—many still continuing to worship him in secret. By chance, that had given the haughty High Elves a good excuse to impose their power on the regular folk, arresting them based on flimsy accusations, and taking them into custody—most never to be seen again.

One ruled not best by legitimacy and popular opinion. One ruled best by fear.

"Makes sense to me," Captain Malaney said, as to offer confirmation to Castorius' thoughts, "those creepy, wax-skinned, yellow-eyed gangly freaks are not to be trifled with."

Skald almost looked slighted. "Well, it has certainly become evident the Empire is not able to handle them."

"So, Ulfric's going to throw the Empire out of Skyrim?"

The Captain's grin made it obvious he did not see that a viable option.

"I did not say that," replied Skald. "But one will find himself in a much better position to negotiate his point of view when one has the sufficient steel and iron to back up his word."

"Indeed." Malaney scratched his dirty hair. "Still don't answer my question, though."

"I beg your pardon?"

"What's in it for _you_?"

"I explained to you—"

"No." The captain gave his head a sharp shake. "That ain't it."

Skald stared at Malaney, nonplussed.

"What you want is a chance to improve on your own situation," Malaney said patiently.

"Perhaps . . . " It was increasingly starting to sound like a negotiation.

"What you want is to get out of The Bale."

"The Pale," Skald corrected.

"What ever."

Skald did not appear to entirely to agree. "Well, I'm—"

"Do not argue with me," Malaney pressed on. "You know I'm right, and it's nothing to be ashamed of. It's perfectly natural. I mean, feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, but we are all men who push against the boundaries given to us."

He waited for a while for someone to contradict him. Nobody did, so he went on. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with trying to better oneself. Nothing wrong with trying to reach—" He swept his hand over the view of the mountains in the distance. "— _beyond!_ "

The last word was a dramatic half-whisper.

Something in the Jarl's eyes lit up at that, though he was clearly struggling to keep up his unimpressed exterior.

Captain Malaney clearly picked that up too, for his normally self-pleased grin took on even more swag.

At that moment, it finally came to Castorius as well. How had he not seen it? This man, Skald, was not so different from himself, after all. He simply sought to improve on his own position, to increase the advantages at his disposal.

Castorius looked at the man a little differently now. Less with contempt, and more with, if not solidarity exactly, then at least some strain of compassion. Or perhaps pity was the word. Likely his ambitions were, if not precisely the same, then at least similar to Castorius'. He clearly did not have the prestige he felt he deserved, and the years for him were only getting shorter.

Furthermore, Castorius could appreciate the risk the man was taking. If any news of his involvement with Ulfric's plot leaked to Torygg, he _would_ suffer the consequences. Perhaps that was why he was so distrustful. Because, at that point, even if he'd managed to keep his life, what little position he could be said to retain in life would be permanently stripped off him.

He'd have nothing left but his own aging body.

A shudder ran through Castorius. What would be the point of living for a man who could not even lure young women into his bed? How would he himself take it? Of course, he would still have the pleasures of the palate, but thinking along those lines was akin to consoling a man with a strong disposition toward running, and who subsequently had come to lose one of his legs, by reminding him of the fact that the other one was still perfectly functional.

Well, close enough, anyway.

Of course, Castorius did not know whether the Jarl's ambitions went along the same lines as his own, but he'd known enough people of power to make an educated guess.

Captain Malaney caught both Skald and Castorius in the embrace of his long arms. His smell left a lot to be desired "The limits of your world are only as narrow as the limits of your mind," he told them.

The eyes of the two men met, and it became clear Skald's opinion of Castorius had not improved any. His contemptuous scowl was an old-man version of sticking out his tongue. Some folks you just could not please.

"So," said Roggie, smiling at the awkward sight of the two men in the erratic sea-captain's enfold. "We're all friends here, right?"

"Do you have my help, you mean to ask, " replied the Captain.

Roggie, his hands up as if surrendering, said, "I would never sell short a man of your caliber. You've yet to name your demands."

"My demands, huh?" Malaney gave a little chuckle. He let go of the two men, laid a hand on Roggie's shoulder with the wolfish grin still intact. "I am a man of simple needs, myself."

Roggie nodded. "Of course." Even he appeared a touch nervous now.

"So, do we have a deal?" asked Skald. It was as if he hadn't been listening at all.

The Captain seemed to take no offense. He looked at the old man. "The Blood Horkers will come to Ulfric's aid."

It was hard going for Castorius to keep his jaw from dropping. _But of course!_ The Blood Horkers! Pirates—who else could you hope to buy for a purpose like this.

But . . . _pirates_? Had Ulfric truly lost his mind? Castorius understood if the man was desperate, but were ships really _that_ important?

"However," Malaney added. "it is as golden-boy here declares. Negotiations are not quite done."

"Well, but—" Skald tried.

"No, no!" Malaney stopped the Jarl with an uplifted hand. "It's mostly a formality at this point. You, my friend, can go on back to your shi—, er, estate, and we will finish this up. "

"I'll have none of it—"

"Do you really think," Malaney said calmly. "that you want to get entangled in the details? A public official as you are?"

Skald though about it for a second. "These gentlemen have my full trust."

"Good. Smart man."

"I have your word then? Ulfric will have his fleet?"

Malaney lifted his hand anew. "My word of honor."

_Surely that's worth all the gold in Tamriel,_ thought Castorius.

Skald nodded. "Good enough for me." Probably it was, too. He then gave Roggie behind the Captain a significant look. "The Commodore will likely not be pleased."

"That will be taken care of," Roggie said, nonchalant.

Castorius though it best to overlook that one for the time being.

"Alright, then." Skald patted his thighs. Let his eyes wander around the people again, in as haughty a manner as he could muster. There was that scowl again, as he got to Castorius. _What does he have against me?_

The Jarl then snapped at his men, who immediately sprung onto their horses. They surrounded their leader, and the posse started walking off.

Once the Jarl was out of earshot, Malaney puffed up his cheeks. "Finally! I was _this_ close to putting my sword through the buffoon."

The span between the index finger and the thumb of his uplifted hand was not a large one.

"Unfortunately, though," said Roggie, "he's a necessary evil."

Malaney cocked a brow. "How is he necessary?"

"Like it or not, even in the future the world will need public officials."

Malaney hawked up phlegm, and spat on the ground between them.

Roggie gave a dry laugh. "My thoughts exactly."

"What's this about a 'commodore'?" asked Joric from behind them.

"We'll get to that later," Roggie replied.

"That being said," said the Captain, rubbing his hands together for the cold, "shall we get a bit more comfortable for the remainder of these . . 'negotiations'?" He gestured towards the ship sitting in the mist. "Why don't we board the Brinehammer, and we'll talk more over some food and mead, huh?"

That did not strike Castorius as a particularly appealing prospect. Unfortunately, though, his mind was leaving him hanging once more, and he could not for the life of him come up with a sufficient declination.

To add insult to injury, Roggie smiled like the Emperor himself had just invited him for a banquet, and perhaps thrown in an offer of a personal back rub. "Sounds good!" he beamed. "Doesn't it, Castor?"

Damned bastard knew exactly how Castorius felt about it, as was plain to see by his grin.

"Oh, sure," Castorius replied. "Sounds excellent." He eyed the dinky rowboat with distaste. Water was one of those elements he did not particularly care for.

"It's settled then!" said Malaney, grinning like he was about to have them _for_ dinner rather than over for one. That was just about how it felt to Castorius, too, as they stepped into the boat. They barely fit in it, all of them.

_I'm going to get you for this, Roggie,_ he thought as they left the shore. _This I_ swear.

 


	13. At Captain's Table

It almost wasn't half bad.

Contrary to what Castorius might have expected, the rest of Captain Malaney's crew did not appear to be quite as uncouth and repulsive as the man himself. This was not the first run-in Castorius had had with members of the Blood Horkers, and he'd long ago come to understand that just because a man was a pirate, it didn't mean he was necessarily rotten through. A little rotten, most likely, but then Castorius was yet to meet a man who did not more or less fit that description.

However, the overall character of the people on board the Brinehammer mattered less. The crew might just as well have been every bit as off-putting as their captain, right down to the last man. It still wouldn't have dimmed any of the glory of their finest feature: their food was excellent!

Castorius was eagerly sucking at his fingers for the remnants of the pepper-and-honey sauce that went with the roasted quail. It had been a good while since he had last gotten to eat that particular savory dish, as the bird did not live this far north. These individuals in question had come all the way from southern Cyrodiil, and had been preserved in salt-barrels. Raiding ships from all across Tamriel was apparently good for more than simply gold.

In addition, there were many courses of more familiar foods: beef—which came roasted, spiced, as well as stewed—mammoth steaks in mammoth-cheese, venison—roasted and in a stew—many different cheeses, grilled vegetables, fresh garlic bread . . . Castorius could not even taste them all before his stomach started to object. It wasn't looking likely he was going to make it to the desserts.

And not only had he been left to eat in peace without being hassled by any attempted conversation, he was also quite pleased that, unlike he'd expected, nobody commented on him skipping the swilling of mead everyone else was hard at. Neither had he gotten any second glances when he'd instead chosen for his beverage a jug of milk that stood on the table, and which everybody else was passing by. Why was it even there in the first place? Whatever the reason, Castorius was happy to drink it, and even happier not to get any of the heckling he usually had to tolerate when he did that.

"Milk-drinker!" they liked to mock, the Nords. It was really quite rich coming from a bunch of butter-gobblers!

Castorius saw Captain Malaney staring at him from across the long trestle table, smirking. He replied with a courteous little simper, hoping the other man would simply continue to leave him be.

No such luck. The Captain leaned forwards, raised his voice over the general chatter. "So, Castorius," he said, "enjoying our humble cuisine, I see." The man's loud voice, dripping with some venomous kind of irony, silenced the commotion. To his displeasure, Castorius found all the pairs of eyes around the table directed at him. _Careful, now,_ he though.

When the man had said "humble" he had obviously not intended his words to be taken at face value.

Castorius took care to finish up his chewing and to swallow before replying. "Oh, yes indeed!" he exclaimed—using all his acting abilities to show keen excitement in place of the inquietude the strange captain's attention actually caused him. "I daresay it has been quite a while since I've last had such a fine meal."

It once again helped that what he said was at least not too far from the truth. He did, however, stop to wonder if he was overplaying it a tad.

_Stop thinking!_

He looked around, saw the milk-jug in front of him, and since there was nothing more appropriate at hand, picked it up and raised it to the Captain. He only felt mildly stupid doing so, but nobody seemed to make anything of it. Only Roggie was smirking, but the damned bastard was in the habit of doing that anyway. "Thank you, good Captain, for inviting us! It sure has been a pleasure so far." He took the jug to his lips, sipping carefully so as to not acquire a milk-mustache.

Everyone else around the table similarly grabbed their glasses and bottles, and drank—including the Captain, grinning still.

_Why do you always have to act like such a damned fool!_

Then, as if to spite himself, he put down the jug and continued, "It must be pointed out, however: I would never have expected food this fine on a pirate ship!"

_I give up—you're hopeless!_

Quiet stares on him now, Castorius began to suspect it had been the wrong thing to say. Compliments were one thing, as virtually everybody enjoyed those, but it was a whole different matter to be told to your face you had proven yourself better than expected. A more sensitive man might take that in all the wrong ways.

Surely lives had been lost over more trifling matters.

Castorius cleared his throat, ardently probing his brain for a way to dress up what could be interpreted as a poorly veiled insult. Unfortunately, he was running on empty.

Much to his relief, then, the Captain burst out laughing— raucously too, as if he'd not heard a better jest in a while. The faces around him were uncertain at first, but ultimately, as if judging it better to humor their leader, his lackeys pitched in with some halfhearted chuckles.

Castorius himself only felt embarrassed. Though he did do his best to replicate a few desultory cackles for courtesy.

Captain Malaney slammed his fist on the table, then, and Castorius was not the only one to jump in seat. The Captain cast a knowing gaze across the table with those black pearls for eyes. "You have keen senses, my boy," he said, snatched a knife off the table, and started to pick his teeth with it. "But I'm no ordinary pirate."

"No?" asked Castorius, apparently unable to keep his mouth shut.

Malaney shook his head. "No, I'm not." He stabbed the knife into the table, and left it sticking up there, hilt quivering. Despite the quasi-violent motion, he was the picture of calm. "I'm much more, as I am able to think far beyond the usual 'where is the next loot coming from' -mentality so typical for my kind." His smile was almost pleasant. "And so I make sure my crew is beyond the ordinary as well. You enjoyed the food? Well, I'll have you know we have a professional chef working on this ship."

"Really?" Now that _was_ genuinely interesting.

Malaney looked pleased. "Indeed. Have you ever tasted skeever meat, by any chance?"

Castorius would have to be pretty damn desperate to do that. He'd seen plenty of the enormous rats when they were still alive, and felt no more desire to go any nearer the beasts when dead. He was well aware that many soldiers _were_ that desperate, however, or perhaps simply had lower standards for their nutriment. Likely it was the latter.

To answer the Captain, he shook his head.

Malaney laughed. "Well, if you had, you'd feel no qualms about doing what is necessary to ensure you'd always have better stuff around. Though I must admit: even skeever is pretty tasty when prepared by a professional."

Men around the Captain were nodding their heads. One of them said, "Well, I always rather liked their meat in the first place," drawing some concurring nods from around him.

"Was I talking to you?!" the Captain roared, and the man shrank back, shaking his head.

"I appreciate your ambition," Castorius put it to distract the Captain staring murderously at his poor underling.

Malaney turned back to him, and flashed another smile. Or perhaps "smile" was too kind a word to describe it. "And I appreciate your appreciation," he said cordially, clearly another man deeply in love with his own mirror image, and always eager to hear about other people sharing his enthusiasm. Men like that, Castorius had learned, were generally easy to manipulate, once one learned their weak spots. And with most of them, the search was seldom a long one.

This one might have been slightly different, though, and Castorius had still not entirely gotten over the odd feeling he was getting from the man. Fortunately there was nothing he wanted from Malaney, except to perhaps get away from him without getting caught in his games, whatever they might have been.

"I also keep a scribe, you know," the Captain said, glowing with self-satisfaction.

"Really?" _We're never going to get out of here if you keep encouraging him!_

"Oh yes," the Captain beamed, "abducted him off a ship from Black Marsh just last week, I did." He made it sound like he'd trapped a rare species of butterfly or something.

" _Abducted_?"

"Uh huh. And a good one too!" Again, like some species of animal.

Castorius licked his lips. Hard to come up with anything to say to that.

"Yes, indeed," the Captain carried on. "After all, one needs a good writer to pen down all the glorious details of one's adventures. I intend to live on long after this mortal coil finally craps out."

"An autobiography?" Castorius had met a few of those who had similar ambitions. Self-involved blowhards and lunatics, the lot of them.

Malaney nodded triumphantly. "Like I said, I'm no ordinary pirate."

Just as Castorius was weighing whether or not he should at all continue on the subject, and was indeed starting to think of ways he could derail the conversation, Roggie spoke, and managed to voice out exactly what Castorius had also been thinking. "You kidnapped the man, and you're going to force him to write about you?"

"Yes?" the Captain said, as if unable to see what ever could have been wrong with the presented scenario.

Roggie gave an uncertain smirk. "Perhaps I'm mistaken, but the way I see it you can hold a man hostage, but you certainly can't _force_ him to write."

The Captain seemed almost delighted. "Oh, I can! And I have!" his grin was wider than ever. "He'll write, take my word for it. I have relayed to him in fine detail what will await him if he does not. Man of imagination that he is, I'm quite convinced the message got through to him. He's just _dying_ to start!" The other pirates joined him in laughter. "I'm currently keeping him locked up in the cargo hold, reading some classics of history—y'know, in order to get the proper tone down."

If Castorius did not already have reasons enough to dislike this man, he now felt his distaste all the way down to his stomach. He was then perhaps partly spurred on by an unsound desire to give this obnoxious man even just the most oblique of slights, when he said, "Well, for such an outstanding individual, I'm surprised I've never even heard of you before."

_Idiot! You utter moron!_

Now it was truly quiet around the table. Not even Roggie was smirking anymore. This time Castorius was dead certain he'd crossed the line.

It was evident Captain Malaney had not missed the obvious subtext in Castorius' seemingly offhand comment. A certain darkness mixed in with his levity, but he did not for a second drop his self-assertive grin. "Not all of the greats are famed, my friend, and not all of those famed are great." He spoke with a touch lower note now, as if to make sure the implications of his words would not be missed.

Castorius swallowed, but decided to continue. He knew perfectly well the answer to his next question before he even asked it, but thought playing ignorance a good strategy at this point. He looked as deeply in the Captain's disconcerting eyes as he could, despite the eerie feeling it gave him. "So, you run the Blood Horkers, then?"

Malaney stared at him for a while, then shook his head. "Unfortunately, no." He scratched at his beard. "Well, actually that's rather a happy thing."

"How so?"

Malaney stood up, and started to walk slowly around the table. "Men, the easily fooled creatures that they are, generally imagine that in order to reach true greatness, they need to assert their own power over others. In short: they want to lead." He stopped, surveying his audience to see if anyone had objections or contributions. When they did not, he gave a satisfied nod, and continued pacing. "But, needless to say, in thinking so, they are greatly mistaken."

Not that Castorius didn't more or less wholeheartedly agree so far with the Captains argument, but it did come across as somewhat factitious from a man who in truth ran his own ship.

Malaney raised his index finger in the manner a lecturer. "See, while it is true that power is the key, what they forget is what power _is_. And what is it?" He stopped again, looking around. "Anyone?" In fact, exactly like a lecturer.

And, to complete the absurd semblance of a school class, one of he pirates lifted an uncertain hand.

The Captain grinned, pointed at the man. "Yes, Gunnar?"

"Well," the man said with some uncertainty, standing up. It was quite the sight: a big, burly, shirtless man like that, acting like a bashful school-boy. "It's the ability to do, is it not?"

Malaney gestured for the man to sit, who did as told. "Almost, but not quite," he said, continuing his walk. He tapped on Castorius' shoulder with his hand when passing. "Ultimately, power is mind's ability to shape reality after the image of its own desire."

He let his eye wander about the table to watch for the impact of his words. A pale and somewhat sickly looking man sitting between Roggie and Gunnar, the same one who earlier had mentioned his disposition towards skeever meat, coughed loudly, and the Captain gave him a furious glare.

He did not let himself be slowed down, though, but instead picked up pace, as if animated by his own speech. "See, it's this desire that itself makes things be. Things exist not because of mere chance, or by will of any god, but because they _want_ to exist!"

This wasn't sounding like anything any authority of any established religion would say. After all, they all emphasized the role of deities in the creation process. Supposedly.

Malaney completed another round, then stopped behind Castorius, placing his hands on his shoulders. Castorius had to exercise tremendous power of will not to try to shake them off.

"Mind, my friends, is the forerunner," said the Captain, "and everything else follows in its wake. It is as I tried to tell the fool there at the shore. What limitations we allow for our minds, those we experience in our own existence. They become the boundaries of our world." Castorius couldn't see it, but supposed Malaney was grinning in his ominous way. "And while it _is_ true leaders have a far greater chance of shaping the world as they wish—much more so than the average person—it is likewise true that they are themselves limited by the exact same things they are supposed to command."

He looked down and met Castorius' eyes, regarding him gently like a father might. A father that Castorius never had, but whom he hated nonetheless. "So that is why I don't run the Blood Horkers. Or, suppose I say, it's why I wouldn't _want_ to. Too many limitations." He lifted his gaze, patting at Castorius' shoulder. " Too. Many. Limitations."

Then, when Malaney said nothing more but didn't remove his hands either, and when no one else seemed to know what to do, Castorius decided to break the silence. "Well, that _is_ fascinating," he said. "But seems as it might be getting late," he looked at the wall where no clock was hanging, "it would probably be better we get on with our negotiations."

"Oh, that's taken care of," Malaney said, offhand.

"It is?"

"Yes," Roggie chimed in, "we had our little talk while you were eating."

"Oh."

"Indeed," Malaney said. "It's all very simple, really. You get me _Alessia's Trial_ , Ulfric will get his contract, and we can look forward to a hopefully successful future of doing more business together."

What the man said, and particularly the last bit, caused Castorius to raise an inquisitive brow at Roggie, but the Nord just smiled a sort of "we'll talk later" smile.

_I don't really care, just let me out of here,_ Castorius thought. "Well, alright," he said, tapping the tabletop, and made to rise. The Captain's hands were still resting heavy on his shoulders, keeping him from getting up. _Alright, then._

"There's something more," Malaney said. _Of course._ "Something about some 'commodore' was mentioned earlier, I believe."

"Ah," said Roggie. "An old associate of Ulfric's, looking to play a part in arranging his fleet. The thing with him is he used to command a warship for the East Empire Trading Company, and has certain misgivings about pirates. As, I'm sure, you might imagine."

"Is he going to be a problem?" As in: is he going to be _my_ problem—and if so, consider him dead.

Roggie shook his head with pursed lips. "We can handle him."

"Good. See that you do." The Captain released Castorius from his captivity, making him want to sigh in relief. "I believe we're done for now, then."

Roggie stood up, smiling. "This is going to work out great, you'll see." In Castorius' mind, that was a textbook example of a foreword for certain doom.

"Thank you again for the splendid dinner!" Castorius said, giving the Captain a quick smile, then made to slip away.

The Captain, however, draped his arm around Castorius' neck, and started leading him in a gentle but determined way out of the dining room.

_Damn—almost!_ Castorius did nothing to resist.

Once they were out of earshot, the Captain regarded him soberly. "I don't like you, you know."

"Oh?" What to say to that—that the feeling was firmly footed on the base of mutuality? "Sorry to hear that."

"No!" the captain brightened, pulling back his arm. "It's a good thing!"

"It is?"

"Yes! I don't trust a man I like, not for the life of me!" He waved an angry hand at nothing. "Unreliable bastards to a man!"

Castorius thought about it for a split second, and could see some kind of sense in Malaney's reasoning. Sort of.

The Captain jabbed his finger at Castorius' chest. "But you, I can see you're _scum_!" That was not the most flattering of flatteries ever to come his way. "A man after my own heart, eh?" Malaney grinned, punching Castorius playfully in the shoulder, and he stifled a yelp.

Malaney sat down, gesturing for him to do so also. "Tell me, what can you remember of your childhood?"

Castorius had to admit that was as unexpected a question as he might have anticipated given the source.

He shrugged, said, "Nothing much, to be perfectly honest," being perfectly honest.

Malaney gave a sympathetic nod. "Ah. Same here. I had a mother, of that I'm fairly sure." He gazed pensively into the distance. "She was a kind woman, she was."

Then he frowned. "Or, on the other hand, could be she was a mean-spirited cunt." The conundrum prompted Malaney to shrug. "Hard to say. Pretty sure I had father, also. Likely a drunk; a violent one at that."

The Captain then concluded the reminiscence of his family history by producing a flask out of his chest pocket. He took a nip, offered it to Castorius who replied with a shake of head, made nothing of it, took another nip, and set it on the table between them, lips smacking contemplatively. "It's really important, you know."

Castorius hated it when people did that, made vague statements to draw the other person to ask what they meant—just to keep them involved in the otherwise one-sided conversation.

"What is?" he asked.

Malaney smiled, as in "glad you asked"—the predictable bastard. He gave Castorius a grave look. "Remembering who you are," he said. "Where you come from. 'Cause if you don't, what does that make you?"

Was that a real question?

"I don't know," Castorius muttered.

Captain Malaney jabbed a finger at him. "Exactly! You don't know! And what you don't know you cannot control." He leaned back, though his chair had no back rest. "But it's not so bad."

"No?" Castorius was rapidly losing his taste for yammering madmen. And he'd never had much taste for them to begin with.

"No, see, what matters is not where or what a man has been, but what one has been made into, so to speak."

"Thought you just said it _was_ important," Castorius pointed out. Why was he unnecessarily stretching this?

"Oh it is," assured the Captain, "it is. But it's not as important as what a man makes of that which he has been made into."

"I have to assume you're talking about yourself here."

Malaney laughed. "Oh, yes indeed. You are clever." _Hardly took a genius to decipher that._ "But I'm also taking about you, my boy. See, men like us," Malaney waved his finger between them. "We are those who are able to steer things in the way we want it to go. We are captains of our own lives, as it were."

It hardly felt like things had been going where Castorius would have liked them to just lately. He gave a slow nod, as if he was thinking about what Malaney had just said.

From back at the table, there was the sound of the earlier gaunt man coughing, and the Captain's left eye twitched with annoyance. He quickly recovered, though, and grinned again. "It is as you so astutely put it earlier: nobody does know me—as of yet."

That wasn't exactly what Castorius had said, but since the captain did not appear to be upset by it, he didn't bother correcting the man.

"But they will," Malaney continued. "That's what the whole scribe business is about, too. Words create reality. They are the active will of the mind." he tapped at his forehead. "And mind, as I said is foremost. Mind makes the world; believe me on that. And I will use mine to shape a future into one in which I will be remembered. Will be reckoned." He nodded his head as if him just saying it made it so.

Afraid of the potential answer, Castorius asked, "And where do I fit in in all of this?"

Malaney leaned forward, breath rank with liquor and rot. "You and I can help each other," he whispered. "I could use a man like you. Roggvir back there," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, in the wrong direction. "He's a good lad, but this close to becoming entangled in this or that mental construction not of his own making. And that makes him a liability." He lay a hand on Castorius' shoulder. "You, on the other hand, I can see you will never let anything get in your way, to stop you from forwarding your own position."

Like as his did to pretend to the contrary, some of the things the unbecoming captain had been saying had resonated with Castorius. And now, at this last one, two thoughts ran though his head at once. First of all there was the disconcerting feeling he was not going to get rid of this man like he planned to. Try as he might, there was no denying that he was speaking as if he had seen Castorius' mind, perhaps even—gods forbid—shared some important qualities with him. Could he really be able to help Castorius in what he had so far failed at?

Secondly, what was it he had said about Roggie? _A liability_? Castorius was not perhaps that well versed in the lingo of hardened criminals, but that hadn't sounded too good to him. Did Malaney see Roggie as some kind of threat to him? He certainly did come off as the paranoid type, so it was a distinct possibility. And if that was the case, Castorius would need to warn his friend.

On the other hand, if he did so, would that even accomplish anything? Roggie would likely not believe him anyway, and might even take it to the Captain—then it would be Castorius himself in danger.

In any case, he was more certain by the second he was already in too deep to back down. He just barely stifled a sigh, and in its stead feigned a grin. "I can see that you're a very perceptive man."

The briefest flash of hesitation lingered on Malaney's face, as if he needed to judge whether Castorius was making a veiled insult. Based on the smirk slowly spreading on it, he the conclusion was negative. "Oh, you don't know the beginning of it!"

_I believe that's a book I don't want to crack open,_ Castorius thought. "I'm sure I don't." He stuck out his hand. "You can rely on me. Me and Roggie will take of this. And then we'll talk more."

The Captain closed his large, clammy hand around Castorius' and gave an overtly vigorous squeeze. "Good man, " he growled. _Oh, you don't know the beginning of it._

It was very difficult to resist wiping his hand once Malaney released it. Castorius focused on not letting his expression of complicity falter.

Malaney spread his arms. "And so we conclude our business."

Castorius nodded. _And not a moment too soon._ The relief he felt, however, was mixed with the dread from knowing their business was actually far from concluded.

Instead of waiting around for Castorius, the Captain sprung up from his chair, and stormed back to his crew. Already he sounded like he had spotted something very displeasing about them, and was barking from the bottom of his lungs. Accusations of improper sexual activities with the women who birthed them appeared at the forefront of his clamoring.

It took a moment for Castorius to gather his thoughts and himself before he could get up. He sought out Roggie. The man, as typical, was smirking his stupid smirk at him.

Castorius waved dismissively at the man. "Keep your mouth shut, unless you're looking to be punched."

Surprisingly enough, Roggie did as told. In silence, they climbed onto the deck of the Brinehammer, to get in the rowboat and back onto solid ground, and away from this teetering deathtrap.

_Let's get this over with—whatever in gods' names it's gonna be._

 


	14. What Friends Are For

The boat trip back went in silence. The whole time Castorius stared at the back of Roggie's head, thinking how stupid it looked to him right now, how he would just like to pick up one of those oars and give it a good clout.

Exercising utmost force of will, he kept his hands on his lap, and focused instead on not retching over the side. The wind was picking up still, and even this close to the shore the waves were making him feel queasy. Especially after such a big meal.

Two men from Malaney's crew accompanied them. The one rowing was the same one that had picked them up. Not a talker, him. Castorius hadn't heard the fellow utter a single word the whole time, and found it refreshing. It was possible the Captain had cut the man's tongue out on account of some more or less imagined offense. Or could be he was one of those rare types of men Castorius had heard of, who loved other things over the sound of their own voices.

Or, possible still, this was one of those men—even rarer in fact—who were wise enough to know that more often then not running one's yap served little but to get one in as deep a shit as imaginable.

The other man said nothing either, but wore the suggestion of a self-satisfied smile that made it obvious he was less likely to possess the sufficient self-restraint to keep his mouth shut indefinitely. Castorius had not see the man aboard the Brinerunner, and supposed he must have been a less important member of the gang. This was also perhaps hinted at by the fact that, unlike the other pirates, he was actually dressed in a proper shirt. Otherwise the man, with his long and flowing blond hair, was pretty much the picture of a Nord. In truth, Castorius thought that if there was an illustrated book of different races, this man would probably have his picture under the entry for that dominant race of Skyrim.

Castorius found he did not particularly care for this one either.

He stifled a sigh boiling within him; there was already plenty of moving air blowing about.

When the boat's bottom scraped at the sand, it was not a moment too soon. Castorius was anxious to get on shore, but had to wait for Roggie and the smug northern fool to exit before him. When his feet finally touched solid ground, he made a solemn vow to never again leave it, only to have his heart subsequently fall out at the realization he was more than likely to return to that floating house of misery real soon.

The rower, as soon as he'd managed to dispatch his cargo, made no needless courtesies, and just detached his boat from the shore as Castorius had barely gotten his feet out. He watched the man gain distance for a few seconds, unable to keep himself from admiring the man's efficient mode of conduct. He wished he could shake off this whole disaster as nonchalantly but, alas, was stuck with his present company. Which, apparently, now also included this shirted pirate oddity. Did the other fellow forget him?

Not likely. The Nord was smiling at the wind-ravished, murky beach as if he'd never seen a prettier piece of land in his entire life. On the other hand, he _was_ from around here, so that probably didn't land too far off the mark. And even though the man had to squint his eyes to keep the wind from blowing sand in them, his face was beaming as if warmed by the loving caress of the early afternoon sun.

_Who is this moron, and why is he here?_

Roggie apparently had no pickle with the man's presence. He looked at the fellow and then Castorius, like they were all part of the same happy pack, exhaled in satisfaction, and said, "Well, this started well, don't you think?"

The shirted Blood Horker opened his gap to reply, but Castorius cut in before the man had a chance to make his insipid contribution.

He pointed his finger sharply at Roggie. "You and me, we need to talk."

Roggie, smiling, looked at the pirate, and shrugged.

"Oh by all means," the man said, smiling also.

Castorius was getting tired of seeing people with stretched out lips and bared teeth. Started to look more like an insult—or perhaps a warning, like that of a wolf or a dog about to bite you. Why did everyone have to act like animals? What ever happened to good old civilized, dignified solemnity?

He shot a glare at the pirate, trying to establish a sort of "I don't recall asking your damned permit"-look, but it clearly went unheeded. The man nodded cordially, like what he'd read into the look was just the opposite.

Castorius walked Roggie out of earshot, gave him what he supposed was a hard glare. "Explain. What's going on here?"

Roggie sighed, and shook his head softly. "Simple, dear Castor. We do a little favor for the good Captain as an exchange for his loyalty to the Stormcloaks."

"Uh huh. I'm sure it'll be real simple. What sort of favor?"

"Oh, nothing illegal," said Roggie. "Well, _too_ illegal anyways. At least not from a moral perspective."

"Out with it!"

Roggie shrugged. "We're going to steal a ship."

"I see." Castorius honestly didn't even know how to react anymore. Probably he should have been shocked. Oddly, he was not. "Well _that_ shouldn't be too hard to do."

"Sarcasm isn't really very becoming on you, you know?" Roggie clapped a hand on Castorius' shoulder. "Don't worry, we've got a solid plan." He grinned. "One, in fact, in which you have an important part to play."

"I'm not killing anyone."

"Fear not," said Roggie, laughing. "Most likely it will not go that far. I should think."

"Roggie . . ."

"Don't worry, no need for you to get your hands dirty." Roggie hesitated, then added, "Well, at least not in that way," grinning like the bastard he was.

Castorius narrowed his eyes. "Pretty fast you come up with a plan."

"Oh, Castor. You know me better than that. It's obvious this was already settled some time ago."

"So all this," Castorius said, gesturing towards the Brinerunner bobbing up and down in the waves, "just a ruse?"

"No, not exactly. The Captain did want to personally meet you before accepting you into the plot. He doesn't exactly extend his trust freely, that man."

That hardly came as a surprise. "Then what was the point of having Skald come in the first place?"

"Well, for one, to humor him. To make him feel like he has an important part to play, and thus confirm his loyalty." Roggie scratched his chin. "Second, to intimidate him. Figured talking to the Captain himself would take care of that. And once he's realized what sort of people he is dealing with, he won't dare to back down. A good way to confirm a man's loyalty."

The shaken look in the grumpy old Jarl's eyes had certainly been worth seeing. "Clever," Castorius said.

Roggie tapped his forehead with a forefinger. "Don't let anyone ever tell you I don't think of everything."

Castorius looked at the ship, sitting ominous in the mist, and shook his head slowly. "So this _was_ all your idea. Is Ulfric behind you on this?"

"Well," said Roggie, stretching the word. "Not exactly, no."

Castorius' gaze was drawn off the ship, back to Roggie. "Guess I should have known," he said. "What then?"

Roggie's smile was like that of a little boy caught in a lie, and who did not care. "Ulfric would not exactly condone any criminal action to forward his goal."

"He _is_ looking to hire _pirates_ ," Castorius pointed out.

Roggie shrugged. "Desperate times, desperate deeds, and all that. But he made it clear he would not allow for soldiers under him to break any laws. Ulfric has all the intention to take power lawfully, I believe. So that makes him very particular about his conduct, _and_ the conduct of his underlings."

"For all the good that's doing him."

Roggie shrugged again. "What you don't know can't hurt you." He flung his arm around Castorius, gave gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Listen, this has very little to do with Ulfric. This here? This is for us."

Castorius raised a brow. "Oh, so it's _us_ now, is it?"

"Indeed it is. The future of Skyrim may be Ulfric, or it may be the Empire still, but one thing's for sure—men like you and me still got to live in it. So we have to think about ourselves."

"Uh huh."

Roggie gave no sign of picking up on Castorius' skeptical note. "Ulfric gets the idea that he'll have the Blood Horkers at his back, he'll be too content to figure out we have business of our own with them. We get paid, no one gets hurt." He spread his arms. "What could possibly be wrong with that?"

Castorius had a couple ideas at hand about what could be wrong with that—what likely _was_ wrong with it. And, based on his experience, when the words "no one will get hurt" were said, it usually meant that somebody was _most certainly_ about to get hurt. Badly hurt.

"What makes you so damn sure I'll go along with this?" Castorius had about had it with being pushed around by this or that person. Time to at least appear to have some backbone.

Roggie's expression of pitying amusement conveyed no sense of taking seriously this newfound defiance. "Come, now. I may be just the best friend you've got. The _only_ one, for all you know."

_That's horse-crap!_ Castorius wanted to scream. Surely it was not true, was it? Was it?

Might have been.

Having given Castorius a while to reply—or, in this case, not to—Roggie pushed the matter further. "It is like I said, I don't really know what either Torygg or Ulfric have in store for you. I have no real idea how they really see your role in all this, but I'm ready to bet neither would shed many tears should you die in unclear circumstances." He paused, probing for a reaction. "And, in fact, at least Torygg may even be counting on it."

Ignoring the uncomfortable connotations, Castorius narrowed his eyes. ""Is that a _threat_?"

Roggie threw up his hands, eyes wide. "By no means! What do you take me for?" _A conniving, possibly back-stabbing, and positively honorless bastard_. "I'm simply making an observation here, my friend."

"And somehow you're going to help me out of this, is that what you're saying?"

A shrewd, mischievous expression spread on that irritating face. "No, it's not. I don't work miracles. But what I am saying is you have take matters in your own hands." He put up his hands, stuck out his lower lip. "Or not. It's your choice really. The way I see it is you can either count on that whatever the big men have planned will end up working for your benefit . . . . " He smirked. "Are you a betting man, _Janus_?"

Now more than ever Castorius wanted to sink his fist into that face.

When he made no reply, simply stared at the man sullenly, Roggie gave a soft laugh. ". . . _or_ you can do something to better your own chances." His smirk melted away, and he grabbed Castorius by both shoulders. "I _can_ help you, Castor. To help yourself. And we can both help each other, and—more importantly—we can help ourselves."

Castorius couldn't help the question escaping his lips as he studied the supposedly earnest features of his so-called friend. "Do you believe in _anything_?"

Roggie pulled away, as if he was for first time during this whole outing mildly affected by what Castorius had said. "Interesting question," he said. His hand went to a chain hanging around his neck, and his expression became vacant. "I think so," he muttered. "Used to, anyway." He pulled at the chain and took an amulet out of his shirt. He looked at it, frowning softly. "I do carry this around."

"What is it?"

"Amulet of Talos. My sister gave it to me once. Sort of carry it for good luck. Or something."

"Didn't take you for the pious type."

Roggie's smirk returned. He tugged the thing back into his shirt. "Well, I'm not." He looked at the sea and took a deep breath. "More than anything, I believe in opportunities." His eyes fixed on Castorius. "And you have to admit that Ulfric has a pretty good case. Things he says, they make sense in their way. The Empire, in many ways, has run it's course. People, and that also goes for provinces, have to look ahead. Think about the future. Cause it's coming, no matter what."

"Didn't take you for a political philosopher, either."

"That, either, I am not. I don't claim to know a whole lot about these things. But what I do know is how to look after myself. And I know that you do too. _And_ I have a strong feeling that men like us would be better off with Ulfric as High King, with Skyrim independent, than we are now with the Imperials in charge."

"Imperials, you say?" said Castorius. "Roggie, I _am_ an Imperial."

Roggie wagged his finger. "Uh uh," he said, "you're a Cyrodiilian. That's different."

"I see," said Castorius. "And you think the people of Skyrim would see eye-to-eye with you on that one? That if Ulfric somehow managed to throw the Empire out of Skyrim, that the people here would not see me as just more Imperial scum? As a remnant of the supposed tyranny they just disposed of?"

"Oh, they probably would," Roggie conceded. "But if you played your cards right, you could be _rich_ imperial scum. And that makes all the difference." He slanted a knowing leer at Castorius. "The _womenfolk_ would probably like it."

Try as he might to resist, that familiar feeling was slowly starting to take him. That nebulous mix of trepidation and exhilaration in the face of some choice he knew he was going to take. A choice that might land him flat on his face in dung-heap, or alternatively allow for him to stride right up the hill, and to rise above the stink.

Make it or break it.

Gold. Prestige. He could feel that sweet promise again, as if Roggie was dangling it right in front his face. The old fantasies sprung up, the ones that had kept him up so many nights. Wealth. Respect. Adoration. Men, with sheepish faces, sucking up to him. Women, their worshiping eyes, lining up to—

"I can see my words have struck a resonance," said Roggie, smirking like a thought-reader.

Castorius found he was chewing pensively on his lower lip. He made himself stop, and tried to dispel the greedy thoughts arisen in his mind. Instead, he creased his brow into a wrinkle, doing his best to narrow his eyes to hard slits, not entirely sure it was working. "I can see you are trying to appeal to my vanity."

Roggie shrugged. "You've got to work with what you got."

_Oh, touche._ "You're still going to have to do better that that."

"What, keeping you alive, rewarding you with riches, and offering a way to better yourself not good enough? You're one tough customer!"

"Oh, yes. You've been a true friend. Such an ungrateful wretch I am!"

"There's that sarcasm again," Roggie said flatly.

Castorius let his gaze linger on Roggie's eyes a while, then switched from the ship to the pirate waiting for them, seemingly whistling. He fixed his eyes on his would-be partner in crime. "How do I know I can trust you?"

Roggie spread his arms. "Do this one thing with me. If everything doesn't work to your liking, just say so, and I'll get you your compensation. Then we go our separate ways, never to bring any of this up again. That sound good?"

"And if I decide to back off, there won't just be a knife in my back?"

Roggie gave an amused sniff. "My friend, that knife could be coming no matter what you do. It's the nature of this world. But in any case, it won't be coming from me."

"Or from our Captain?"

"You met him," said Roggie. "Saw what sort of man he is. And he knows you exist. That's all I can say."

That did not do anything to soothe Castorius, but he had a bad feeling that this had already gone too far for second guessing. Plus, the promise of finally getting to better himself tickled his insides. He certainly had made no progress on his own so far. His efforts, it had to be admitted, had been downright pitiable. And, as little as he may have liked it, he was ready to admit to needing some help.

Not to mention, that besides wanting to more or less bash the man's head in himself, Castorius could not help thinking of what Malaney had said about Roggie. Should he be warned? "You know . . . " he started, not knowing how to continue.

"Yes?"

"Do you, um, trust the Captain?"

"What?" Roggie let out a raucous laughter. " _Trust_ him? A good one, Castor!"

"Well . . . "

"Ha!" Roggie slapped this thigh. "Trust him, you say? That's real fresh."

Castorius decided to try and get past the possible ridiculousness of his original question. "Doesn't it concern you at all if you also find him so untrustworthy? I mean, to be working with him and all?"

Roggie had that look again, like teaching a particularly dense child. "You don't always get to choose those you work with. You just have to do your best, look after yourself and all that. Ultimately, it comes down to a certain amount of luck. Can't factor in every single risk."

_Every single risk like, say, being disposed of by a deranged pirate captain?_ Still, Roggvir had a point. You couldn't play games with criminals and expect nothing but smooth sailing. Castorius wanted to say more, but bit his tongue. Every sensible bone in his body told him to back off now, to tell Roggie he wasn't going to be part of it. Go back to Ulfric, and hope for the best.

He scratched his chin, the stubble on it having grown long enough to be itchy. "So, what, we steal a ship?"

Roggie smiled, and thumped him in the back. "You're making the smart decision, are you? I knew you would."

"We'll see about smart," Castorius muttered.

Roggie started to shove him back towards the Nord pirate, who was in the process of casting small stones across the water, trying to make them skim the surface—mostly failing. "I don't want to give away too many of the details of the job. It might, you know, ruin the surprise, if you will."

Castorius was _not_ a friend of surprises. "I don't know about this—"

"Worry not, my good man. There will be plenty of time to go over it come tomorrow morning."

_Maybe I could still get out of this,_ Castorius thought, though he knew that to be mere wishful thinking. Suddenly he felt really irritated. "So what's with the pirate?" he asked, gesturing at the man, his annoyance rising past the point where he could care less that they were back in earshot.

And, sure enough, the man appeared to have heard him. He turned to face them, and grinned at Castorius. "Oh, I'm no pirate."

Castorius frowned, stopping in front of the man, his hands on his hips. "No? Then what are you?"

"I'm just like you: an adventurer."

"Uh huh."

Castorius had some idea of what his role in the great scheme of things might have been, but he decidedly did not concider himself anything like an adventurer. Adventurer of pleasures if anything, but any other kind of excess excitement he considered to be nothing but unnecessary nuisance. How foolish it was, to be asking for any more trouble than one was due by the sheer fact of having been born into this world of woe and idiocy!

At that thought, the fiend of self-reflection threatened to rear its ugly head, but Castorius stomped it down with firm determination.

The no-pirate had the smirk of an unruly dog that had just pissed on your favorite pair of boots. Castorius was weighing sufficiently firm words to tell him to wipe it off his face with, when Roggie stepped between them.

He clapped a hand on the man's shoulder. "This here is Radd. He's good people, I can tell that from experience."

The two shared a grin, and Castorius was stripped of all doubt these were indeed two great minds alike. _Oh gods, just what I needed!_

"That's right," said Radd the Adventurer, putting his hand in turn on Roggie's shoulder. "Old partner in crime, so to speak."

"And to speak truly," Roggie added, and they chuckled, making Castorius want to stick his fingers in his ears.

"So what is he doing here now?" Castorius made no effort at all to cover up his true feelings, nor did he care to direct his words straight to the man himself.

Roggie seemed content enough to speak for him. "Well _obviously_ he's going to join us for our little commission."

"That's right," chimed in the man himself, "I'm here to help you fellows out."

"I got that," Castorius said, deciding not to even look at the man. "I meant what was he doing on the ship in the first place if he's not one of them?"

Radd the Adventurer just shook his head softly, looking more amused than annoyed at being ignored.

"Works for them, of course," Roggie replied.

"I see," said Castorius blankly, not really seeing it.

"You see, the Blood Horkers are something of a loose collective, and they employ those they have use for at the time, even work together with other pirate gangs where it benefits them. And though they do have a leader, the captain of each ship has a relative amount of autonomy. That allows for men like Captain Malaney, men with their own way of conducting business, to thrive while continuing to serve the general purpose of the Horkers at large."

"Opportunities all around, then."

"Yes, my sarcastic friend," Roggie said, pointing his finger. "In fact that's exactly the thing here. And nothing brings more opportunities than war. Even the possibility of one!"

"War and crime—the perfect match."

Roggie grinned. "As inseparable as whorehouses and gonorrhea."

_As, I'm sure, you're very aware of._ Castorius sighed, jerked his thumb at the Nord. "And let me guess: even he has a more or less clear idea of the details of this gig. Am I the only one left in the dark until the very last minute?"

Roggie looked to be thinking about it for a while. "Yes," he said.

"Oh." _At least he's honest about it._

"Don't take it the wrong way. It's just I think I have a very good idea how your mind works, and it would only make you over think it, had you all the details in advance. Trust me, you'll, uh, _perform_ much better if you don't spend all night thinking about it."

Castorius kept silent a while, then nodded. "Alright, I trust you."

Roggie's brows shot up, and it was almost as if he just stopped himself from saying something like "really?" In its stead he also nodded. "I'm glad."

Radd the Adventurer stepped between them then, and placed his arms around both of their shoulders. "There now, isn't that better. I'm glad we're all getting along now."

Castorius vacillated between punching the man in his grinning teeth and grabbing his arm to try to break it, but instead feigned the most strained little smile in the history of forced simpers. He even made himself look at the man briefly in the eye. "Indeed."

Radd turned to Roggie. "I still have business to attend to. Shall we meet you at the Solitude docks, then?"

"That we'll do. At exactly ten o'clock in the morning, don't be late."

Radd put his hands up. "Would I ever?"

Roggie snorted, and the man gave the briefest of bows of courtesy, and took his sneering self elsewhere.

Once Radd was gone, Castorius frowned at his friend. "We're stealing the ship from _Solitude?_ "

Roggie shrugged. "Yeah. Something wrong with that?"

"Something—" Instinctively Castorius lowered his voice and looked around. He realized then they were still out in the wilderness, and the Horkers and seagulls were unlikely eavesdroppers. "Yeah, I'd say there's a little something wrong with that." He spread his arms. "The most guarded place in the whole of Skyrim?"

Roggie smiled. "Don't worry your pretty little head with that. There's no reason for us to cause any fuss. Nobody will ever even notice."

Castorius fought the very strong urge to argue any further, but managed bite his tongue. He knew by now it would have been useless anyway.

Roggie yawned. "Any more questions, or can we head back to tell Ulfric the good news? I don't know about you, but I for one would like to also get some sleep tonight still."

"You go on ahead," said Castorius. "I also have some business to attend to."

Roggie raised his brows and smirked. "Yes, of course. I know you do."

"Not what you'd think."

"I'm sure it's not. Just don't use up all your energy, if you know what I mean. You'll be needing it tomorrow."

Castorius waved away Roggie's innuendo, and they went back to their horses.

It was true Castorius would have rather confirmed Roggie's suspicion, but he did actually have something else on his mind now besides fooling around. Something he needed to do.

"Meet me at the camp, then?" Roggie asked.

"There, or if I take longer, at the docks. Ten was it?"

"Ten," Roggie nodded.

Castorius ignored the look Roggie gave him, and gave his horse the spurs. "Alright, then."

He hoped he wouldn't have to see Skald's furrowed face upon his visit to Dawnstar. The mugs he hoped to see there were ugly enough on their own.

 


	15. Burden of Proof

The endless frigid drizzle had just turned into a downright nasty icy downpour by the time Castorius got to shelter on the patio of the Windpeak Inn at Dawnstar.

He stomped the mud stuck on the bottoms of his boots onto the boards, and tried to dry his hair as well as he could with his hands, before realizing the futility of trying to look decent in conditions such as these. It was somewhat absurd to think that in just a month or so the land here would be covered in snow, and the air would be as cold as a Frost Giant's arse.

He took one more disdaining look back at the sludge-sodden cobblestones before pushing though the door—wishing he could just step out of the entire province, never to return.

Upon stepping inside, the inviting smell of food and the less inviting odor of fresh and not-so-fresh liquor hit him in the face, accented by the heat of the large fire pit roaring at the middle of the hall. The place was packed full, as if the people had been driven there to seek refuge from the bad weather. Though of course they could have simply stayed home, too.

The weather, as it went, was as good an excuse for getting tanked as another.

Castorius scoped out the clientele populating the tables by the sidelines. Mostly the usual raggedy plebs out for a few hours of respite from their trudging existence of meaningless toil. How blurring out your faculties at the cost of reality just coming back to smack you over the head a few hours later was supposed to help, that much he had never been able to decipher.

Suppose it was simply another manifestation of their general sorry, deluded state—part of the grand conditioning by which they were kept in servitude to their masters. Some people could not be helped.

Most of them, in fact.

As irony had it, as much as he disagreed with the general purpose of these places—in addition to the nominal function as places to spend your night—Castorius had to admit to quite enjoying their general atmosphere. At least if one managed to ignore the people. But disregarding them, the warmth and the hum of the fire-pit, the tufts of smoke twirling lazily, and the timber interior darkened by decades worth of soot, they always made him feel welcome. It felt almost like returning home, especially when coming in from some nasty weather like this. And around here that was pretty much always the case.

The Bard was in the process of tuning her lute by the bar counter at the front of the hall, and the sight of her tugged at the corners of Castorius' lips. Though the days of her youth were now behind her, she was still a delightful sight with her lusciously plump breasts that she did not exactly attempt to hide—what with that generous neckline of her tavern girl's gown and all.

In fact, the neckline was so low that every time she bent forwards you could practically hear everyone in the room hold their breath. Maybe this would be the time something slipped out. But that never seemed to happen. She most likely did it on purpose, in hopes of some extra tips. No doubt it worked, too.

Unfortunately Castorius had not had a "intimate performance" from her. As of yet, anyway; and not due to lack of trying. But the way it was with these things, one simply had to be patient. Keep the goal inside, keep working at it. Diligence and fortitude, those were the keys to success, always and ever. That said, he didn't exactly visit these parts often enough to keep a solid effort going. Not that he could be blamed for it.

The woman finished her tuning, strummed a couple chords, and started to sing. Her voice was a less than impeccable match for the rest of her, but then who was perfect? What was her name again? Katria? Something like that, anyway.

Castorius' mood dampened as he remembered that there were more pressing issues in his agenda. With reluctance, he tore his eyes from the the bard's chest—jiggling pleasingly at each stroke of the lute—and searched the tables for the considerably less aesthetic people he'd originally come here to see.

And, sure enough: there at the table in the farthest shady corner slumped a pair of quite indelicate ruffian figures. One was dressed in a ratty belted tunic, whereas the other was as shirtless as the crew on Brinehammer had been. Both had arms riddled with sinew, and the muscles of their thick necks flexed nearly in unison as they chewed their food in silence. Their backs were turned towards the hall.

Castorius let out a determined exhale, and walked up behind the dining maybe-not-quite-gentlemen. He rehashed his snake-charmer's smile, cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, brothers," he started. "Hate to interrupt your nice dinner." As far as he could see, they were chewing on some skeever meat and slaughterfish eggs. He wasn't sure whether the latter was technically even edible.

The man on the left, Alding, turned his head enough to give Castorius an unenthusiastic glance. His ruddy face adorned with a horker-like mustache had an expression stuck on it as if it'd just been hit hard with a shovel. A spiky crest of hair stuck up in the middle of his otherwise bald head. He grunted, and went back to his meal.

The other man did not even bother to look.

_Alright, then._ This was at least the kind of behavior Castorius was used to. "As chatty as ever, I see," he said. "Listen, I've got some—"

"We ain't talkin' to you, Castorius," growled the one on the right, Gjuk. He took only the briefest of pauses from masticating to convey this message. With each bite, the scalp under his closely cropped yellow hair shifted, and his thick, similarly hued mutton-chops bobbed up and down.

Alding next to him didn't bother to add anything, simply slurped from his tankard, way louder than was necessary.

_Well, that was new._ "What's this, now?" Castorius was careful not to let the trepidation in his mind leak into his voice. "Did I perhaps do something to hurt you fellows' feelings? 'Cause if that's it, I can assure you—"

"Always with the jokes, huh?" growled Alding. He turned around enough to give Castorius a hard, bloodshot glare. The ale foam on his mustache made it somewhat hard to take him too seriously. He jabbed a meaty finger at Castorius' chest. "Well, how's this for laughs: you're a dead man!" He sniffed contemptuously, shook his head, and turned away.

This wasn't going at all as planned. Castorius had not expected this sort of hostility, which was probably somewhat ironic seeing that he was dealing with professional robbers and killers here. He was not about to back down, however.

He gave a chuckle, hollow and metallic in his ears. "Whoa! So bad, huh? Sure I can't just make it up with a good back rub?"

Alding simply shook his head quietly while staring straight ahead, but Gjuk by his side turned around slowly. "You really don't appreciate the gravity of the situation, do you?" He had a low, raspy voice, a bit like that of an elderly dog, hoarse from a lifetime of barking at shadows.

"What situation? I haven't even been around here in good while. How should I have any damned idea of what you're going on about?"

Gjuk studied him for a minute, eyes a touch narrowed, like he was looking for the hidden wisecrack in Castorius' words. There was none to be found, for he genuinely had no idea of why they were presenting him with such a cold shoulder.

Alding took the tankard to his lips, and between slurping said, "We know all about you and High King Torygg. Everyone here does."

Castorius' heart took a little lurch at that. But how could it be? Ulfric himself hadn't found out not more than a day past, how could the word already have washed out to the scum on the shores? Via Skald?

But no. Torygg may have suspected Castorius' intentions, or even had decided about the true state of affairs, but he was too shrewd to be running his mouth about it. And Skald the Bellyacher himself was as good as clueless. This was obviously something else. An ugly rumor he had to cut the wings of before it was too late—if indeed it wasn't already.

He kept his voice level, even nonchalant after a measure. "Nothing gone on between us, I swear," he said, lifting his right hand, palm forwards. "He's way too serious for my taste, anyway."

Gjuk was still staring at Castorius, a calculating look in his eyes of modest intelligence. There was something else, too. Perhaps even a soft touch of melancholy. "Your jibes are not going to help you when someone else with a less soft heart than me and Alding here comes at you for being a snitch."

A s _nitch_? Now Castorius felt a wave of something other than alarm. Wounded pride, perhaps.

"Now, wait just one minute," he said. "I may be a lot of things, but—" he narrowed his eyes. "Wait, who are you referring to?"

Gjuk opened his mouth, but then his eyes were directed behind Castorius, and his face sagged. He shied away, turned back to join his sulking friend.

"Who, you ask?" said a voice behind him. There was a chuckle. "Why, it'd be a whole lot easier asking who _wouldn't_."

Castorius knew this one, of course. Before he turned, he made sure his simper for disarming hostile serpents was still functional, boosted it up a bit to account for extra venom.

Behind him stood a man you could have introduced to your mother. That is, if you hated the bitch and hoped to give her a heart attack. Captain Stig Salt-Plank had likely started his slog through this life only moderately ugly, but a lifetime of piracy had not done his appearance any favors. His hardy, hawk-nosed features—a natural mugger's face, Castorius thought—had acquired an impressive collection of scars and dents from undoubtedly countless scuffles, and his left eye sat silvery and sightless atop a long scar so uneven it seemed likely the man had stitched up the wound himself—while drunk. He was most decidedly not smiling, though the quirk at the corners of his lips might have been enough to convince a layman otherwise.

Castorius fanned out his arms and opened his eyes wide, as he'd just been assigned with the task of describing "innocent" without any use of words.

"What is this?" he said. "Your underlings here just all but called me a snitch to my face. I didn't realize you Blood Horkers have such bad manners!" He shook his head ruefully "What happened? I don't come around for a few months and everybody goes back to acting like a bunch of barbarians. Thought I'd at least managed to rub off some Cyrodiilian courtesy on you people."

Not a drop of amusement seeped through Salt-Plank's wooden mask of a visage. His good eye had a tired look about it.

He gave the faintest of shrugs. "We've certainly missed your cultured presence here," he intoned. A spark of malice animated him a bit. "But at least the gap has been filled by some very interesting rumors about you."

"Rumors!" Castorius spat. "Since when have you people been going by rumors!"

Salt-Plank shrugged again. "You go by what you can get," he said, and smiled a sarcastic and humorless smile. "Here to set things straight, I take it?"

"I don't need to!" replied Castorius. "By definition, the burden of proof is on the side of those making the claims."

Salt-Plank cocked his head. "I truly hope you don't yourself believe that nonsense. See, the people I know? They believe you a snitch—well, then that's exactly what you are. There really are no two ways about it, friend."

And who was _they?_

Castorius thought, however, that Salt-Plank himself did not seem overly concerned.

_He's toying with me!_ he realized. _Well, two can play at this!_

So, instead of doing anything to suppress his latent sense of alarm, he let it bubble up, just tweaked it a bit so he could use it, to appear weak. He might have only been good at a very few selected things, but lying just happened to be one of them. And—once again—as usual, the lie was all the better the more truth there was in it. Forcing reality was one thing, but bending it just a bit, that was the way to get it to work for your benefit.

The despair—albeit spurious—leaking into Castorius' appearance was not missed by Salt-Plank. His expression took on a good deal of sardonic amusement verging on sadism—a look so typical for a man of his ilk.

For Castorius, seeing it felt like a small triumph already. He feigned a distressed blow of air through puffed cheeks, a motion that felt just a little too genuine for comfort.

"So," Salt-plank said slowly, like he was enjoying himself, "what do you have to say for yourself?"

Castorius spread his arms again. "What am I even accused of?"

"You really don't know?"

"I have no idea!" Castorius replied. He both did, and did not. That mattered less, however. "Honestly!"

The Captain grunted. "Hm, yes well. Let's say for the say of argument you're speaking the truth."

He looked around, as if to check if anybody was listening. But everyone seemed to be way too busy staring either into their flagons, or at the jiggling bosom of the tune-challenged, pretty bardette.

"What they're saying," he said in a lowered voice, "is that you were the Empire's informant from the start." He bared his teeth, and seemed forget all about digression. "Hah! Just imagine that: people thinking the man they took for a crooked imperial soldier was actually straight all along, and thus, in their logic, crooked. I'm sure there's some strong irony right there."

"Yes, surely," Castorius muttered.

So that was all. Probably he shouldn't have been surprised it all boiled down to something as simple as that.

He struggled the urge to roll his eyes. _What over-dramatic simpletons, the criminals of this province!_

After all, what had he done with them so far? Traded some minor imperial artifacts he had gotten so easily it was nearly insulting to all thieves to have called it stealing. Shared with them some imperial "secrets"—hideaways of minor assets, weapons-shipments and whatnot. Hardly classified stuff, and even more hardly anything the empire or the High King would care about, much less wasted an entire soldier to act as an "informant".

That was exactly why he had been able to arrange the information with such ease. It was all but common knowledge, and the worst thing that they would expect to happen was some isolated robbery or two. Those wouldn't likely bring down the Empire, or even cause a noticeable dent. In fact, minor thefts and the like were included in the calculations. Stuff always went missing, it was no big deal.

Actually it was good, as it meant more trade for the imperial weapon-traders. Crime was as good for business as any war, and, in his mind, Castorius saw his own actions as an integral part of the grand machine. Not that he liked it, but it had served him well.

Not well _enough_ , was the only problem. But perhaps that was about to change.

But this silliness was not what he needed right now. He'd come here because a nagging doubt kept him from feeling entirely good about what he was about to get into. Not to partake in this sort of ridiculous mummery.

All distress leaked out of him, and he gave Salt-Plank a weary look, nearly forgetting that this was a man in charge of a fleet of more or less callous and violent criminals, with his hands about as red as any man sailing the Sea of Ghosts.

"Really, now?" he said. "And I took you for a smart man."

The Captain's right eyebrow cocked just a slightest bit.

Castorius ran hands down the length of his body, gesturing at his clothes. "Now, tell me: what am I wearing? Hmm?"

Salt-Plank looked Castorius up and down, like he only now took notice. Probably he had already, though.

"Well?" Castorius asked. "This outfit look at all familiar to you? Here, let me give you a hint."

He cupped his hands over his mouth, started to make a blowing-whistling sound, complete with sounds of thunder. Then he pretended to grab something at his back, pulled it in front his face, and hunched a bit, like a parody of man shrouding himself in a cloak.

Concluding the pantomime, he raised his brows at the Captain, now staring at him with something less like amusement. "Well . . . ?"

Captain Salt-Plank made no reply. There was an unmistakable chill about him.

Castorius cleared his throat. "Yes, well, I'm sure you see I'm dressed up as a Stormcloak. Does that not say something? Or the simple fact that I even came to these parts? Would an imperial informant do _that_?"

"He might," replied the Captain after a pause. His voice was frosty steel. "You could be a spy."

Castorius had feared he would say that. He brushed it aside. "Nonsense. I've simply come to see the light."

Salt-Plank snorted.

_Enough of this_! "I'm working for Ulfric," Castorius said. "You can ask the man himself if you like. Because it's the truth. And he's sent me on an errand that has to do with your kind."

"My kind?"

"The Blood Horkers."

The Captain slanted his eyes. He no longer seemed interested in pretending to care one way or another about Castorius' possible transgressions. "Well, you have my ear now."

_Of course I do, you fool_. "I'm glad. Look, I came here to look for advice."

"Who you working for?"

"That's exactly it." Castorius held a pause. "A certain Malaney. You know him?"

Something flashed in Salt-Plank's eye; something in the vein of dread.

Behind him, Castorius heard Gjuk and Alding stir. " _Malaney?_ " one of them whispered.

"Something wrong?" asked Castorius.

Captain Salt-Plank pursed his lips, evidently disguising his true feelings. "Wrong? No. Just . . . _interesting_ , shall we say?"

Castorius frowned. "Why?"

"No particular reason," replied Salt-Plank. "Just an interesting choice of companion, that is all. He's a relatively new one, so I can't really say much about him."

"That a bad thing?"

The Captain shrugged. "Could be. Might not. But I will tell you this: that Captain Malaney is a strange sort of fellow."

"I could tell that much myself!" Castorius said. "What I need to know is can he be trusted?"

"Trusted!" laughed Salt-Plank. "You do realize you're talking about—"

"Yes, yes," Castorius interrupted. "I'm familiar with that line of reasoning. I just . . . I don't know, had a sort of bad feeling about the guy. That's all."

"As opposed to the soft, cuddly feeling you get from me?"

Castorius shook his head. "So there's nothing you can give me, then?"

"I'm afraid so," Salt-Plank replied. "I'm sorry." He did not appear the least bit sorry. "Where is this job, by the way?"

Castorius hardly paused to think whether or not he should say it. "Solitude."

Captain Salt-Plank nodded slowly. "So I suppose you'll be dealing with the Blackbloods."

"Blackbloods?"

"They're a semi-independent cohort of the Blood Horkers, mostly in charge of that area. I'm actually kind of surprised you've never heard of them. But you can trust them, at least." He smiled—if such a revolting sneer really earned such an innocent moniker. "Well, at least you can trust them to be everything a pirate stands for."

"Guess that's something," Castorius muttered.

Salt-Plank got serious, took a step towards him. The usual whiff of liquor, sweat, and seawater went with him. "There's one thing I can say, though. Captain Malaney?"

Castorius held his breath; not because of the excitement, but for the stench. "Yes."

"You know when you look someone in the eye?" Salt-Plank's voice was a gravelly whisper. "And you can really _see_ them there? The person they truly are. It's in their eyes, you know—most can't hide it."

"I take your word for it." The person behind Salt-Plank's intensively staring eye was not anyone he would have wanted to get too familiar with.

"But that man." Salt-Plank shook his head. "Nothing. You look at his eyes, it's like there's no one there. Just . . . emptiness. It's real eerie when you think of it."

Salt-Plank held Castorius' eye for what felt like a good minute. Castorius once again did not know what to say.

"Well," Salt-Plank said then—almost jovially—and tapped Castorius' shoulder. "Good luck with that!" He gestured at his minions, who immediately sprang up. "It was nice chatting, but we have to be going now."

Before he could leave, however, Castorius grabbed the Captain by the arm. "What, that's it?"

Salt-Plank frowned, stared at Castorius' hand. "What's what? What more do you want?"

Castorius let go. "Well, first you're like: 'Castorius, you snitch, you're a dead man'" he made his voice a gruff parody of pirate speech. "And then you're like: 'glad to have you back, friend. Good luck with the empty-eyed mad-man!'" imitating an overjoyed simpleton.

Salt-Planked pointed his finger at him. "I never called you a friend," he said.

Actually, he had, but Castorius thought better of mentioning it.

"Business is business," the Captain went on. "And you said we had you wrong, didn't you?"

"Well, yes, but—"

Salt-Plank shrugged. "Alright then—why would you lie? No, as far as I'm concerned, we're done." He smiled, and inclined his head a touch. "So, a good day to you sir. And best of luck!"

He gave a harsh laugh, turned around, and went for the door.

Before exiting into the pouring rain after his cronies, he looked back one more time, grinned at Castorius, and muttered, "Captain Malaney, huh?" He then shook his head softly, and was out the door.

Leaving behind bemused Castorius—none the wiser than he'd been before coming here. Or, perhaps with just a little bit more insight into the minds of the people he was forced to work with.

He sighed in frustration.

Was it just him or was everyone around him lately a complete madman?

 


	16. An Oblivious Encounter

_What now?_ Castorius thought.

Probably he should head back to the Stormcloak camp to report. Maybe go punch Roggie in the face, just for the sheer satisfaction of it. But the weather out there did not call to him at all. Heavy raindrops were now pounding hard on the windows, and water had started to leak through some cracks in the sealing, received by strategically placed buckets underneath. Thunder rolled in the distance

On the other hand, the mood inside had not suffered a bit from the worsened weather, but even seemed to have picked up a little. Several people were standing around the front, waving their tankards, and singing together with the bard. The cacophony didn't really do much to improve the overall sonic quality of the performance, if not exactly lowering it either. One man was even dancing. Sort of.

The bard struck the last chords of Ragnar the Red, and stopped to tune her lute. It was really too bad she couldn't do it to her throat, too. But, by gods, did she start to look appealing in Castorius' eyes! Maybe it was the aesthetic challengedness of his earlier company, or perhaps the still present sense of being about to put himself in danger, but he was feeling that warm glow about his abdomen just looking at that form of hers.

He felt a sudden urge to approach. There was even a chance she'd still remember him, had perhaps wondered where he'd been. Maybe this would even be _the_ night. And if it were, he might even take it as a sign of sorts. Reassurance, even.

His eye then caught a man dressed in dark robes, leaning on the innkeep's counter, and leering at the Bard. It was an Altmer man, tall and lanky as they usually were, with thin flaxen hair hanging unkempt down to his shoulders, and an unhealthy gleam in his filmy, yellow eyes.

The elf made to move towards the woman, and Castorius took that as his cue. No doubt this creepy bastard was going to harass the fair minstrel—an approach less then welcome in her book. This was likely a common occurrence too, given the sorts of places she worked in, and the usual clientele. A sober and handsome young man such as Castorius hurrying to a maiden's aid was sure to be noticed as a reward-worthy act of heroism!

He let the weirdo get to the woman first and spew out his opening line before springing forward to save the day. To his immense satisfaction, the expression on the Bard's face was every bit as displeased by the visitation as Castorius had hoped. _This is going to be so good!_

But, as he'd barely reached the edge of the fireplace, someone grabbed his arm. Castorius turned, irritated, to whoever it was, ready to tell them off. Some other fellow in dark robes, it seemed. "I'm sorry," he said. "could you—"

A familiar face grinned at him. "Well, look who it is! Fancy meeting you here."

"Sam!" said Castorius. "What are—" But of course; the man had mentioned coming this way in the midst of his lecherous tirades. Then again, he'd also mentioned visiting a strumpet, and to Castorius' knowledge there were none in town.

"Come to join me for a drink after all?" Sam asked.

"Well, no," replied Castorius. He then remembered where he'd been heading. The Altmer was still talking to the Bard, with no warmer a welcome. There was no time to waste. "Sorry, Sam. I'd like to chat," _Oh, yes! You have no idea how much that would please me!_ "but I'm sort of in the middle of—"

Sam laughed. "Don't worry. Karita can well take of herself. And she's not really your type, doesn't really go for the self-appointed hero sorts."

Karita—apparently—looked to be replying now. The irritation in her eyes, and the hard set of her mouth gave some indication as to the nature of her words.

"Yes, but—" Castorius frowned, and turned to look at Sam. "Wait, what?"

A mischievous gleam about the corner of his drooping eye, Sam smirked at Castorius. "Not to mention that she's really not the type to requite an act of so-called heroism by granting free access to her fleshly charms." He turned to eye the mentioned charms. "No, I'm afraid she's quite chaste. Shame, that." He shook his head softly, nearly wistfully.

"How do you— What are you talking about?"

Sam did not move his gaze, but grinned wider. "See?"

Castorius looked. The Altmer was walking towards them now, his face sagging and his eyes cast firmly on the floor in front of him. There appeared to be something of a pink tint to his sallow face, and a near-perceptible rain cloud hung above his head.

Behind, Katria still frowned after him, and the folks around him were laughing gleefully. Not long after, she picked up her lute again, and started singing some folk song with crass lyrics. This also seemed to much tickle the crowd's fancy.

Sam looked at the visibly humiliated High Elf—not looking so high right now—passing them on his way towards the door, followed by mocking pairs of eyes.

He grinned with all of his teeth. "He's a piece of work, that one. Real curious appetites. I like him."

Castorius stared as the man exited into the pouring rain, seemingly uncaring about the fact that he was about to get soaked. "I'm sure," he muttered. Then turned to regard Sam through narrowed eyelids. "How do you know about his appetites?"

Sam shrugged. "How do I know that when you were but eight years old, you gave a Septim to the girl next door to get a look underneath her unmentionables. And when you asked for her to look at yours, she ran away." He gave a mirthful laugh. " _And_ the next day you had the gall to go ask for a refund, earning you your very first bitch-slap! Oh, little Janus had stones on him, for sure!" Sam held his belly and giggled.

Castorius had no reply besides his wide eyes and gaping mouth. Had he been talking about that? He hadn't even _remembered_ it!

Sam looked very pleased. "Yes, I know things, alright. Ol' Uncle Hermie is not the only one privy to . . . _hidden knowledge_ , if you will."

Castorius blinked. "I'll just pretend to understand what you just said."

Sam had a smirk from ear to ear, and a somewhat cruel gleam to his eyes. "You do what you have to," he said. "I know you always do."

"What's going on here? How do you know these things?"

The mischievousness dropped off of Sam's face, it's place taken by a kind of delight. He raised his index finger. "Well, see, the thing is—"

And then he exploded. Or not exactly, but his form was suddenly obscured by a strange, purple and black light phenomenon, like he was consumed by an unnatural sort of flare. It happened so suddenly, Castorius hardly even reacted.

As the light disappeared, so had Sam. Or at least in the place he had been standing there was someone very different. He had appeared to become considerably larger. Also, considerably less human-like, with an ebony complexion adorned with blood-red war-paint, and two sets of bovid horns that had also definitely had not been there just a second before. He wore massive obsidian-and-blood armor, the spikiness of which made it look like a deadly weapon in its own right.

It took a while for Castorius to find a proper response to this vision. Then he got it. He leaped backwards, and let a out a shrill scream—so high-pitched, he himself wondered if it had truly been him or one of the women in the place. Surely everyone would be as shocked as he was!

It only occurred to him a split second later that his right hand probably should have instinctively gone for the hilt of his sword. Instead, it was pressed tight against his chest.

The apparition was still there. "Aah!" Castorius added—in a slightly more manly tone, but not by much.

It got really silent, then. He looked around, and, sure enough, found everyone staring. It took him a moment to make a disconcerting realization, though: the people, instead of staring at this seven-foot monstrosity, were gaping at _him_. Drunken frowns, raised brows, and glassy eyes seasoned with interrupted irritation, all pointed at his direction—like _he_ was the one standing out in this picture.

The Bard had also stopped playing, and was giving him a look half vexed by the uninvited interruption, half worried whether this was some raving madman someone accidentally let in. The look certainly contained no trace of amorous potential.

Sam—or what ever this creature was—turned to the crowd, holding up his hands in a calming way. "Don't mind my friend here," it said with all the joviality of a kindly uncle from out of town. It did still seem to have Sam's voice "He's had a long day, and is—well—quite easily excitable by nature. And though a little jumpy he may be, I assure he's quite harmless."

Slowly, the eyes turned away from them. Some mutters, shook heads, and mild curses aside, nobody seemed too dispositioned to make much of this mild disturbance. The Bard picked up from where she left off, but not before giving Castorius one more frown of bemusement. No recognition was discernible in it, let alone affection.

_Well, so much for that_ , Castorius thought, though only passingly.

Nobody had as much as blinked at the sight of Sam, but he was most definitely still of a very noticeable appearance. At least by Castorius' standards. No amount of blinking changed that.

The thing previously known as Sam flashed Castorius a genial smile of glistening ivory teeth "Now, where were we?"

"Who—" breathed Castorius. " _What_ are you?"

"I'm glad you asked," the creature said. "My name's Sanguine. Daedric Prince of debauchery they call me. And with good reason, I may add."

_Oh._

Daedric Prince. Castorius was not a man easily surprised, had not been for some years. But this was certainly something he had not anticipated. Being pressed about it, he might have even gone as far as to say he did not believe in things such as Daedric Princes and whatnot.

But here apparently was one now.

He felt he should say something. Something insightful. "Um . . . what?"

Sam/Sanguine tipped his head back and laughed. "I know, I get that a lot!"

Despite himself, Castorius found himself leaning forwards, stifling an urge to reach out and touch. "Are you . . . _real_."

Sanguine shrugged. "What's real? You real?"

"I'd . . . like to think so."

Sanguine gave a mildly amused grunt. "Indeed, so you would."

"Well, _are_ you?" Perhaps he was simply losing his mind. That might have been a comforting explanation.

"Well, let's find out, why don't we," Sanguine said, and grabbed the shoulder of a man walking past. "Hey, am I real?"

The man frowned. "Yeah, real strange," he said, tore himself free, and walked on.

Sanguine shrugged at Castorius. "You see?"

"Maybe I'm dreaming," Castorius said. He tried slapping himself on the cheek. Nothing. A little harder, perhaps. It stung, but still nothing.

"You might as well stop doing that," said Sanguine. "After all, I'm not Vaermina. I don't tend to come to you in dreams."

"'Come to you'? Is this what this is? You're here for me?" What would that even mean? Castorius' knowledge about the supposed purpose of Daedric Princes was a bit shaky at best, but certainly it wasn't their job to drag away the souls of sinners, was it? Right?

"Don't flatter yourself," Sanguine replied. "I come here for the good times, is all. Me running into you, and especially now again, is just lucky chance."

Castorius frowned. "Lucky, how?"

"Well, I happened to overhear your little conversation with the little seamen there. Said you were heading to Solitude to do a bit of pirating. And I thought, that must be as good as coincidences get!"

"Uh, huh," Castorius said.

That feeling was slowly starting to rise up again. The one he'd gotten uncomfortably intimate with in the course of the day, the one where somebody was likely to tell him things he did not much care to hear.

"Oh, by the way!" Sanguine blurted. "If you're interested, you could still try to approach Karita if you like." He glanced at the busty Bard, grinned at Castorius, and winked. "Might be worth the trouble, don't you think?"

"Thought you said she was not my type," said Castorius. "And, what was it, _chaste?_ " Somehow the taste of the word was foul in his mouth.

"And I meant it, too. Likely you'd be lucky to avert the same treatment our little carcass-fiddling friend got just a minute ago. Though you may smell a bit nicer."

"What would be the point, then?"

Sanguine shrugged with a wide smile on him. "It'd be really entertaining."

_Right, that's it._

Castorius tried his best to straighten himself up, though he was still obviously dwarfed by his company. This made him uncomfortable, as he simply was not used to looking up at people. Of course, this wasn't _people_. That, however, did not mean he should have to take just any treatment.

He cleared his throat, and said with as level a voice as he possibly could, "No thank you. I'd like to retain at least _some_ level of dignity."

Sanguine raised a brow. "Dignity?" he said. "You're basically a flesh-tube that processes food into shit. What possible dignity could there be in that?"

More dumbfounded than properly insulted, Castorius groped in vain for an astute response. "I'd like to think there's a little bit more to me than that," he mumbled.

"Yes," Sanguine mused, looking down at Castorius' crotch. "You do have your . . . urges."

"Hey, now—"

"Look, man," Sanguine said, placing a hand on Castorius' shoulder. Many a supposedly reassuring hand had already rested there during the course of this long day, but none with quite so decisive a grip. "I'm not here to lay blame on you for your obvious failings as an entity."

"That's nice of you, " Castorius muttered.

"No, what I'm going to do is give you an offer. I happen to believe that you could help me with something, and in return, I can help you." His smile had all the conviviality of a man offering to dig your grave for you. "How does that sound?"

Castorius tried to think about it. His brain was just not working too well. "Um, well, that depends—"

"Hey!" Sanguine interrupted, perking up, and slamming his hands together. "How 'bout we sit down and talk about it over a drink!"

"I don't really drink," Castorius said. It was true, of course. Wine was the exception, but even that he only ever had for the flavor, and never more than a little at once, eschewing the intoxicated effect.

Besides, he very much doubted a dive like this even had anything to suit his palate.

Sanguine stared at him blankly for a while, blinking. "Hey," he said then, perking up, and slamming his hands together. "how 'bout we sit down and talk about it over a drink!"

Castorius, in turn, stared at Sanguine. "How do I get the feeling you want me to go out of my way and have a drink with you?"

Sanguine cocked his head, smiling almost innocently. "Would you?"

Sounded like a bad idea, no matter which way you looked at it. How might he be able to turn it down? "Well—"

"Alright then!" Sanguine chirped, slapping Castorius in the back, and nearly toppling him. "I'll have an ale, myself. No need to bother with a tankard. Have yourself what you like." He placed a few coins in Castorius' hand, and then sat down at the table closest to him.

A deeply intoxicated man already vacating that spot gave him an irritated, drunken glare. Sanguine replied by simply staring at the man with a friendly smile on his lips.

After a while, the man shook his head, like he wasn't quite feeling alright. He got up, and staggered towards the door.

Sanguine started to whistle, and strum the table with his large, gauntleted fingers.

Castorius simply stared at the enormous creature for a while. It such an absurd sight in these circumstances, yet nobody had as much as blinked.

"Are you sure nobody else can see you?" he asked.

Sanguine grunted. "Of course they can see me! I just addressed several of them, didn't I? I doubt they would have taken so nonchalantly to a disembodied voice. Do you?" He shook his head. "No, they can see me, alright. Just not quite the same way you can, that's all."

Castorius thought about it for a while. "Alright."

_Yeah, sure._

Why not.

The short walk to the innkeep's counter went in a sort of a haze, like he was drunk out of his mind. Such a short walk too, and it felt like it took ages. What was he doing here? Having drinks with a demon? Maybe he should say something to the innkeep, ask for help.

No, Castorius had already had quite enough of people staring at him like a madman. They'd likely end up throwing him out, which might otherwise not have been such a bad thing in itself, but the creature was more than likely to follow him. At least here there were other people, in case things started to go south.

And what good would the others do? Well, they might not be any help, but at least there'd be . . . witnesses?

_Yeah, witnesses to my murder. Perhaps, if I'm lucky, they'll also turn up for the funeral. If there even_ is _a funeral._

So, sighing, he simply got to the counter, ordered two ales from the innkeep—who gave him a wary eye but served him nonetheless—and made his way back to the table, where Sanguine was still strumming his giant hand against the tabletop, fluting away.

"Ah!" Sanguine said upon receiving the drink. "Shall we?" He lifted the bottle, fishing for a toast.

Castorius unenthusiastically clinked his bottle against Sanguine's.

"To good times!" Sanguine said, and took a big gulp.

"Mmm," said Castorius, and lifted the dusty thing to his lips.

As disgusting as ever, it seemed. The liquid managed to reach that challenging balance of being too sour and too sweet at the same time. _Prevomited_ was the word that sprang to mind. It was simply incomprehensible how folks could swig tankard after tankard of the stuff!

Now, mead was maybe a little better, but certainly not by far. It had the problem of being too sweet, like a drink meant for children. The idea behind it was in itself absurd: yes, let's leave a bunch of honey in the bottom of a barrel of water, and let it spoil. Then we can get wasted! That's what it all amounted to. Cheap thrills for cheap people. There was no celebration of man's sensual nature there; quite to the contrary. It was all about dulling the senses to a point where even reason itself faltered. And that's how they liked it, too, lord and peasant alike.

Though, to be completely honest, there had been one ale Castorius had tasted that would qualify as proper sustenance, and that was a specialty brew he'd gotten from the Cyrodiilian master brewer Falco Horatius. Now there was a man you could respect, who had an art about his trade, and who would do more than simply cater to the troglodytic tastes of the unwashed—and, to be frank, in matters of taste, it was quite staggering to realize how many of even those supposedly "washed" had simply no idea of finer things, or any quality to begin with.

Castorius had had the pleasure of talking with Horatius on numerous occasions while he was still positioned in the Imperial City, had had the honor of getting the first taste of his finest products, and was even proud to have called him a friend. In fact, just thinking about the man's fine ale made Castorius a bit melancholy. The pale golden color of it, a bitter taste achieved by heavy use of hops . . . perfect when paired with aged and sharp hard cheeses. Nothing like this swill, in short. What might one pair with _this_? Skeever was the only thing to come to mind.

Sanguine, picking up on Castorius' mood, leaned closer. "What's on your mind, friend?" He nodded towards the front of the room. "Still thinking of her, huh?"

Before Castorius could reply, the giant Daedric Prince already had his consoling hand resting on his upper back. "Don't worry yourself over it. Can't bag them all, now can we?"

"I wasn't—"

"Though . . . " Sanguine said, looking at the troubadour who, by popular request, launched into another round of Ragnar the Red. The white-toothed grin on his dark-ebony face got ever wider. "I do love me a challenge."

He turned back to Castorius. "That's really the trick, ain't it? Pushing the goody-goodies over the threshold, to get them to loosen up a bit. To have a bit of fun for once. People like you, already far-gone and depraved, you're the easy ones. Hardly even any fun, to tell you the truth. No offense, of course."

"None taken," muttered Castorius, and tried another swig. The taste had not improved at all.

"Yes," Sanguine continued without pause, "but to take the buffet of debauchery to those nourished on the salutary diet of virtue. To have them have a taste of it—to have them _enjoy_ it!" He leaned over the table, grinning like a particularly puffed-up wolf. "Now _that's_ what I call a successful day."

He leaned back, resting the bottle on his stomach. "But really, all it really comes down to is getting people to do what they were already inclined to do in the first place. For some, it simply takes some more effort, to find those impulses buried under so much righteous and moralistic conditioning. But trust me, they're there. We're all made of the same stuff, in the end."

Another big gulp, and Castorius had almost gotten halfway through his bottle. If he could just get this one down, then he would be off the hook.

He frowned at Sanguine. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Why not? Do you find my narrative tiresome?"

Castoirus stared at the creature for a few seconds. "Yes."

After another stretch of heavy silence, Sanguine let out a rowdy laugh. "Well, you're honest at least, I give you that. A not entirely unbecoming characteristic, I may add."

The ale was apparently strong stuff, for already it had seemed to do away with Castorius' sense of prudence. He looked Sanguine deep in his pitch-black eyes, and said, "What do you want with me?"

Sanguine nodded. "To the point, eh? By all means!" He leaned closer. "As I recall, Blinky the Sailor told you you were to meet with the Blackbloods at Solitude?"

Captain Salt-Plank, presumably. "I believe he mentioned as much, yes."

"Excellent!" Sanguine said. "See, it seems as if I've misplaced something of mine with them."

"'Misplaced'?"

Sanguine shrugged. "Misplaced. Lost in a gamble. The bottom line is, it was taken from me with deception, and I want it back."

"Losing something in a fair gamble and being deceived are not the same thing, you know?"

Sanguine slammed a hand on the table. "Gamble, yes. Fair? No!" He grinned. "Oh, I've been known to bamboozle once or twice in my time, but to dupe _me_? Ha! That actually takes some gall, you know!" He smacked his lips appreciatively. "Nevertheless, one of the Blackbloods has something of mine, and I want it back!"

"Then why don't you just go get it? I don't see them stopping you."

Sanguine wagged his finger. "It's not so simple, you see. Unlike you, they don't know me for who I am. For them, I'm just Sam Guevenne, a plain old good-time fellow. Not anyone they'd find particularly intimidating, at any rate. And I can't just go around blowing my cover to everybody can I? That would just about spoil all the fun!"

"You can't just go back as Sam?"

"I'm afraid not. See, I got out in a bit of a hurry. It seems as if I may have, well, _boinked_ the sister of this individual in question. I don't think he took it too well." He chuckled to himself.

That was not particularly surprising. Castorius could somewhat relate, though wished not to linger on it. "Well, just pick another disguise then."

Sanguine clicked his tongue. "It's tricky. For reasons I myself don't entirely—or in fact _at all—_ understand, I can only appear in one disguise to the same people. Should I choose another, they'd still recognize me."

Castorius wondered for a while whether to take this deceptive giant at his word. It seemed like a very implausible excuse. "So, I suppose you want me to go get it for you."

"Oh, not so!" replied Sanguine. "That would be a bit too dangerous, for these are no cats to be toying with. I don't get off on getting people killed, you know." He shook his giant head. "No, all I need you to do is to find out the place where they're hiding, and I can sneak in later myself to go get back what belongs to me."

"What is it you're looking for, anyway?" Some incredibly valuable Daedric jewel perhaps.

"A rose."

Castorius gave a blank stare. "A rose?"

"A very _special_ rose!"

_Well, of course._ Castorius nodded. "Alright, I'll take your word for it. How is it that I'm supposed to find their hideout?"

"You follow them, obviously. Here." Sanguine reached inside his chest plate, and placed something on the table. It was a jewel, and a very large jewel at that. Red as a ruby, jagged edged, and about the size of a child's fist, it had an odd glow about it, more or less marking it as not from this world.

Now this was more what Castorius had had in mind, something actually worth wanting back.

He looked around urgently, and leaned forward as to cover up the jewel from any curious eyes. "Are you crazy?" he hissed. "People can see!"

Sanguine shrugged. "I don't see why they shouldn't."

Luckily, no one was seeming to pay any attention to them. Still, Castorius took out his satchel, and placed it on top of the shining rock.

Sanguine smiled at that, but made no comment. "Anyway, this is what you'll do: after your 'job' or what ever you call it, you go to Jaree-Ra—"

"Who?"

"He leads the Blackbloods. _He_ scammed me for my rose."

"And so you humped his sister?"

Sanguine waved his hand. "An unrelated incident. And yes." He shrugged. "In any case, together they lead the pirates. So, as I said, you go to him, and you present him with this. You tell him some story how it's something you found recently and are looking to sell. Something like that."

"Don't you think he'd be curious about where I got it from?"

"Let's just put it this way: when you fool around with someone, do you concern yourself with where or with whom they've previously been?"

Castoirus thought about it for a second. "Go on."

"So, he will show interest, but downplay it. He's going to offer you a much lower price than it is actually worth; come up with some lie about it being impure or some such nonsense. You are going to accept it."

Castoirus raised a brow. "Really?" It was hard to imagine anyone thinking the jewel was not ridiculously valuable, let alone expect to convince somebody else of it. But then, pirates and criminals were generally a bold breed of bastards. "How much _is_ it worth?"

Sanguine shook his head. "You have _nooo_ idea!" He did not seem to care to elaborate, however, and it was probably better not to think about it in the first place.

Castorius nodded. "Alright. What then?"

"Then he is going to make an excuse, and leave. You will follow. Unnoticed, of course. Ever tagged anyone before?"

"I assume you know that I have."

Sanguine grinned. "Indeed. So, that shouldn't be too much trouble then. He will be heading back to their hideout somewhere on the coast. Just stick around long enough to see where their hideout is. There's no need for anything more dangerous than that. When you see it, just come and report to me, I'll handle the rest. Doesn't sound too bad does it? I'll make it worth your while."

Castoirus rubbed his temples. _Sound too bad? Not in theory, no_. "I still don't understand why you don't just find out the hideout yourself?"

"I can't explain it, I'm afraid. Besides, aren't you glad to get a chance to help out an actual Daedric Prince? Not many get that sort of honor, you know."

The expression on the creature's black face was a strange mix of unrivaled arrogance and something like a child-like anticipation of recognition.

There was really nothing satisfactory Castorius could say to that. He just shook his head, and blew air through puffed cheeks. "I guess."

At least he'd gotten though his bottle of ale. After just one, he didn't even feel too bad, despite the fact they'd seemed to try and cram as much alcohol in it as they possibly could.

Then, just as he was contemplating the proper parting words, Sanguine looked at Castorius' empty bottle. "Ah, looks as if you're done. Go fetch us another one, eh!"

"You know, I'd rather—"

"Great! Another ale for me, please. They're really tasty here!"

Castoirus opened his mouth, then closed it. He sighed, got up, and humbly started towards the counter.

Perhaps he would try the mead this time around.

 


	17. For Your Hands Only

Castorius burped. The sour aftertaste of last night came up with it, and threatened to bring along a mouthful of the ale and mead he'd been all but forced to ingest. Had he had some of their wine too? The little throbbing in the back of his head seemed to testify to this.

All in all, the whole evening had been a low he'd not hit in a good, long while. Perhaps ever.

Sighing, trying in vain to breathe out all of the foul fumes mulling his insides, he eyed the Solitude docks. He was leaning on the railing at the top part of the dock complex where you could get a good view of the scene.

Around him people whipped past right and left, busy as beavers. It was probably just minutes before ten A.M., and the place was bustling with action, with the last of the cargo being loaded onto the waiting ships. By noon, new shipments would be coming in, so it was about time to start getting the old ones going. People scurried back and forth, yelling, and carrying, and pushing, and hauling, and Castorius—not the world's hardest working man by his own admission—was getting out of breath just by looking at it. And probably most of these people had had more to drink last night than he had!

Solitude was about as peculiarly planned of a city as they came. Built largely on top of a massive arc of stone stretching over the channel where the Karth River flowed into the Sea of Ghosts, it was definitely not something you could have built in an area prone to earthquakes. It did make an undeniably imposing sight when first sailing underneath it, arriving at the harbor.

The day was overcast. A mild but chill wind flapped lazily at the flags and pennons on the ship's masts and the loose ends of their hoisted sails. There was a continuous snapping sound from the ropes beating against the masts, accompanied by the clinking of ship bells.

The wind might have felt refreshing blowing in his face, ruffling his overgrown whiskers, if it hadn't been for the strong odor of ocean it carried. It was a bit like spoiled fish, Castorius thought, and not something his unsteady stomach was greeting happily. The modest bobbing of the ships sitting at the peer wasn't really much doing it for him, either. He hadn't had anything to eat, and, despite his growing hunger, wasn't quite feeling like it yet.

He'd had an unpleasant awakening that morning. To say the least. It had taken him several disoriented minutes to figure out where he even was. Then he'd remembered—still at the Inn, alone in the room he'd rented for the night. He'd had way more to drink than he'd intended to, and way more than he'd ever _wanted_ to. Despite hardly being falling-down drunk the way most of the other customers had been, he'd still needed to get to bed as soon as possible.

Luckily, he'd finally been able to convince his companion of this, and to let him go. The companion in question had been in that exact falling-down condition, probably worse than anyone else there, yet, like by some supernatural power, managed to stay on his feet. In fact, Sam—

_Sam?_ No, not Sam. _Sanguine_. A real, living and breathing Daedric Prince.

Castorius had to shake his head just remembering it now. Had it really happened? All he had to do was to put his hand in his satchel, to feel the immense jewel therein, to convince himself that it had all been real. He'd personally talked with— _drunk_ with—an entity he a mere twenty-four hours before might have written off as nothing more than superstitious mumbo-jumbo for the gullible.

And he was going to do the creature a _favor_?

"Good morning, friend. Enjoying the view?"

Castorius started. The speaker was Radd the Adventurer, who had suddenly appeared beside him. He rested his hands on the railing, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath with an enchanted expression on his face.

He exhaled. "Ah! I love the sea air, don't you?"

"Mmm," muttered Castorius.

Radd turned his perpetually satisfied mug to Castorius, and said, "You have a bit of a grouchy way about you, you know? Anybody ever tell you that?"

Castorius was just about to share with this smirking buffoon his idea of a good place the man could place his characterizations, when Roggie showed up behind them.

"Well, well," he said. "Nice to see associates show up in time! Having a bit of a heart-to-heart before the job?"

Castorius, not taking his eyes off the oblivious simpleton, mumbled, "Something like that."

"Good, good. Well, I hope you're well rested, for—" Roggie took a look at Castorius' attire, put on an amused frown. "What are you wearing?"

Right. That.

It had been a close call that Castorius, in a hurry as he was, had almost showed up wearing a Stormcloack outfit. That would obviously have drawn unsolicited attention. So, it having been too late to go back to the Stormcloak camp to fetch his own clothes, he'd had to purchase some from the Inn.

What he was wearing now could be pigeonholed as "tavern clothes", which consisted of a brown vest with golden yellow trims on top of a green tunic, green breeches down to his knees, and a pair of brown slippers. It was not the most dignified costume for someone used to wearing military uniforms for the good part of his life.

"It's . . . nothing," he replied.

Roggie shrugged."Oh well, it hardly matters. You're going to have to change soon anyway."

_Sounds promising._ "Mmm."

"And what about me?" asked Radd the Adventurer.

"You are fine as you are," Roggie told him, and the damn fool looked to take it as some sort of compliment.

Though, Castorius reflected, being told his breath stank like he ate a bag of shit for breakfast would have likely had the same effect.

"Shall we get this over with?" he huffed.

"Aren't we up on the antsy foot—" Roggie started. He took a couple sniffs at Castorius, and scrunched up his nose. "Have you been _drinking_?"

_Oh, of course!_ "It's a long, and deeply unconvincing story."

Roggie regarded him for a few seconds, a somewhat incredulous look in his narrowed eyes, then grunted softly. "I'm sure it is." he said.

He didn't, however, press it, which Castorius was very thankful for, as he honestly had no idea what lie he would have come up with at this point.

Castorius leaned over the railing, swept his hand over the view of the ships waiting to depart. "So, which one are we taking?"

Roggie pointed at one farther away, a large, heavy one sitting right under the stone arch.

An Imperial war ship. _Uh huh._ "That figures."

"Doesn't it?" replied Roggie. "Captain Malaney scarcely seemed like a man in need of a fishing boat. Plus, from where I sat it looked like he had the grub part of the operation down pretty good."

"Right."

Radd the Adventurer slapped his hands together. "Sounds good! What's the plan?"

Roggie waved at them to follow. "Come on. There's some people we need to meet up with."

They trailed him up the stairs, and onto a steeply arched stone bridge which ran over the entrance to the East Empire Trading Company's warehouse. Two people awaited them up there. They were leaning on the railing with such purported non-suspiciousness, Castorius wondered if he'd ever lain his eyes on a more suspicious sight. They were dressed in gray robes, heads hidden within cowls, which certainly did not help the impression.

Roggie wasn't exactly playing the subterfuge, either. He raised his hand in a blithe wave. "Won't you look at this! Everyone where they're supposed to be, _when_ they're supposed to be. Is this a good omen, or what?"

Castorius couldn't help cringing. _Yes, just go_ begging _for trouble, why don't you?_

The two people took down their hoods. The other one was a rather nondescript Nord female with close-cropped gray-brown hair, but the other one, a tall male, caught Castorius' attention. He was Argonian, which in itself should not have been a surprise. All but shunned by mainstream Nord civilization, the reptilian people were often forced to make their living on the fringes of society. So piracy certainly seemed a logical solution.

The reason why Castorius was initially taken aback upon seeing the Argonian was that he only now put together two and two. This must have been that Jaree-Ra fellow Sam . . . Sanguine had mentioned. But of course—it was a textbook example of an Argonian name, he'd simply not given the matter any reflection.

_But . . . he got intimate with the sister of this . . . lizard?_

On the other hand, the entity Castorius had taken for Sam, an obnoxious loud mouth, was in fact not human at all. So he supposed it made sense in the end. Still, Castorius could not help but feel a touch off-put by the image.

"I'm always on time, Roggvir," the Argonian hissed. With his kind it was always a bit challenging to decipher if they were mad at you or simply stating a fact.

"I know you are, Jaree-Ra" said Roggie with an air of joviality, confirming Castorius' guess. "That doesn't mean I can't express my contentment, now does it?"

"You do as you wish," Jaree-Ra replied with no evident investment in the matter. "To the heart of the matter: who is it you've brought with you today?" He gave Castorius and Radd a sweep of a cold eye.

"This here is Radd."

"Well met," the blond Nord said.

"Yes," replied the Argonian. "And the other?"

"This," Roggie said, clapping a hand over Castorius' shoulder. "is none other than Janus Castorius. He will be our, er, _bait_ for tonight."

_A what, now?_

"Yes," said the Argonian slowly. Either something like a smile appeared on his discerning features, or then he was trying to look intimidating. Maybe both. "Yes, I can see that."

Castorius opened his mouth, but Roggie was quicker. He gestured toward the figure behind Jaree-Ra, saying, "And I believe this to be the main player for tonight's show?"

The woman made no gesture to respond in any way, and Jaree-Ra answered for her. "She is. There will be no uncertainties on our part." His eyes flicked to Castorius. "As long as you people don't fail to perform."

Roggie chuckled. "Oh, no fear of that! Right, Castor?"

Castorius grunted.

Jaree-Ra nodded curtly. Then his green serpentine eyes narrowed. "And the payment?"

Roggie produced a large bag from his satchel. "Half now, half later. As usual."

"As usual," replied the Argonian, snatching the pouch.

"Alright," Castorius said finally. "Is someone finally going to explain this to me, or what? What are we doing here?"

Roggie shared a brief look with Jaree-Ra. They both seemed somewhat entertained, and Castorius felt his blood surge. If there's something he hated, it was to be played for a fool. And that had been going on for a good day and a half now. "What is it?" he demanded.

Jaree-Ra pointed his hand towards the sturdy ship waiting at the peer behind them. "This here beauty is Alessia's Trial. One of the finest battleships in his Imperial Navy to sail all the way to the north."

Castorius nodded. "The one we're going to steal." To say it out loud did not make it feel any more likely.

"Precisely," replied the Argonian, with enough confidence to seem it was only a matter of formality,

"And you, my friend, have a key role in all this." Roggie said.

"I see. It's up to me to overthrow the entire crew, I take it?"

Roggie grinned. "After a fashion."

Castorius rolled his eyes, and sighed. "Out with it, already!"

"The ship is commanded by one Captain Caro," Jaree-Ra said. "A harsh and unrelenting character, or so they say."

"Indeed," Roggie chimed in. "Though we have it by reliable sources, our good Captain has one weakness—"

"What is this, a children's tale now?" Castorius said.

Roggie ignored him. "And that weakness is that he has a soft spot for young, strapping lads. You're young _ish_ , so should suffice. You'll just—"

"Hey, whoa!" Castorius interrupted, throwing up his hands. "Just whoa! I'm sure this Captain Caro is a right swell gentleman, but you know I don't swing that way! He can—"

"It's a _she_ , Castorius."

"Oh." _Well, that might change things a little._ "Is she, uh . . .?"

Roggie shook his head. "No, 'fraid not. A bit older lass, in fact, and perhaps indeed a bit rough on the edges. But I hear what she may lack in salience, she makes well up in skill and vigor!"

"I see," intoned Castorius. _I can't believe my ears!_ he thought. But the truth was, in the end he wasn't the least bit surprised. After all, what else could Roggie have wanted him for? Indeed, what else was he _good_ for?

But what he actually almost couldn't believe was that he himself was seriously considering it. Why not? He'd come this far, pretty much knowing it wasn't going to be anything good, but at least with something like this he felt competent. Not to mention that if they were right about this captain, and she was someone who would fall for him—after all, not many _wouldn't_ —then this might actually turn out to be the easiest mission he'd yet been given. And the reward just might be better than anything so far. _Much_ better!

"I can see you have a few qualms about this," commented Radd the Adventurer at his side, smirking as usual. Castorius contemplated for a split second pushing the man over the railing, but figured they might still need him. Though for what, he could not even begin to guess.

Castorius gave both Roggie and Jaree-Ra a level look. "I'm no harlot," he said. He held a serious pause. There was a suggestion of a frown on the Argonian's face, as far as Castorius could tell. He then breathed out a long, grave breath, just a touch exaggerated. "But I _am_ a man of my word. I said I'd help where I can, and I will." He ground his teeth seeing Roggie's grin. "I will do this."

"I knew you would, Castor," said Roggie. "I wouldn't have brought you otherwise."

_You, what, knew me for a whore? How very flattering!_ "I see."

"Might it have made things easier to have briefed him beforehand, Roggvir," Jaree-Ra said. He had a point, of course, but Castorius could see now how Roggie had played his cards just right. He truly w _as_ a clever bastard! Castorius actually felt something akin to envy.

"In other circumstances, yes," Roggie replied. "But now's as good a time as any. At least this way he'll have less time to start balking."

"So what do I actually do?" Castorius asked.

Roggie arched a brow. "Well, now, I didn't think you needed my advice in that!"

"What I mean—"

"I jest! I know what you mean."

Castorius did not feel like so much as cracking a smile.

"Here's the plan." Roggie fished something out of his pocket. "You go to her, get her to go to bed with you. And, here's the tricky part: you have to stall her. Make it last."

"Uh huh. And for how long?"

"That would be," Roggie said, looking like he was counting. "At least until six P. M"

"Starting from?"

"As soon as you can. She's doing paperwork in her cabin as we speak."

"For over six hours! Divines, Roggie. What do you take me for?"

Roggie chuckled. "Relax. She will likely have to attend to her duties in the meanwhile. Just make yourself comfortable, show her some of that famed Janus Castorius charm. Make it worth her while. Then, come evening, as soon as you can, give her this." He produced the small, red vial he'd taken out of his pocket.

"What is it?"

"A powerful potion. It will knock her right out, and _keep_ her out. Just find a way to give it to her; slip it into her drink, drop some on the tip of your prick—whatever you can think of."

"Very classy, Roggie."

"When you're done, we will be waiting. Just open the window to her cabin, and give us a sign."

"What will happen then?"

"Then," said Jaree-Ra "your job will be done, and my people will take over."

"I see. As simple as that, huh?"

"As simple as that," confirmed Roggie genially.

_What could go wrong!_ "So, what, I just march right into her cabin and get down to it?"

"You'll need a cover-up, of course. Initially. I have that covered. In fact, if you're ready, we can go right on and have you changed."

Castorius frowned. "Changed? Into what?"

Roggie smiled. "One more surprise?"

* * *

_Should have known, I suppose._

Some minutes since they'd left the Blackbloods, and, thankfully, Radd the Adventurer with them, Castorius stepped out of the watchtower in front of which he'd met Sam Guevenne. When Roggie got a look at him, he clearly had to suppress a smirk.

Castorius regarded him with hands on his hips. "Well?" he demanded. "See anything you like?"

"Oh, it's great," Roggie said. "Suits you perfectly!"

"Uh huh."

To be perfectly honest, the outfit in itself was actually an improvement on the attire he'd been wearing earlier. It was just your basic farm clothes, brown tunic and pants, plus a pair of leather boots. Only the green cap covering his head made him feel a bit silly. And the fact he was supposed to pass for a courier—generally not the sort of occupation a man his age would have. It was a young man's gig: running to and fro across the land, delivering personal notes, inheritance letters, adds for new businesses, what have you.

And now, apparently, classified military orders.

_Who's going to believe_ that _?_

Roggie reviewed the outfit, looked Castorius up and down, and nodded. "Yes, perfect. Takes at least ten years off of you." He snorted softly.

Castorius rolled his eyes. "Yes. We'll just see if anyone is foolish enough to buy into your hare-brained scheme."

"Oh, just worry about your own part, old friend. 'Cause that's really what it'll all be . . . hanging upon, if you will."

Castorius shook his head. "Alright. Let's get to it, then."

"After you," said Roggie.

They walked back down towards the docks. As they arrived at the bridge, Roggie came to a halt. "You're going to take it from here, lover-boy," he said. "I don't want to risk being seen with you, and raising any unwanted questions."

Castorius nodded. "Fair enough. Think I've got it" _Oh, you do, do you?_

"Just remember the lines we went over. Don't try go and try to improvise unnecessarily, lest you accidentally say something stupid."

"The trust," said Castorius, pressing his palm on his chest. "It's really touching."

Roggie shook his finger at him. "You save those touches, now!" He gave a laugh, and started walking off. "See you on the other side, friend!" he called over his shoulder.

"I'll see _you_ in Oblivion," Castorius muttered after the Nord. Though, recalling his dealings with a Daedra Prince just last evening, he quickly drew back his words.

Upon crossing the bridge, he found the others right where he'd left them. Castorius avoided meeting anyone's eye, though as far as he could see, only Radd was looking his way. He would not get the satisfaction. Passing Jaree-Ra, Castorius briefly thought about how he'd still have to deal with the unbecoming Argonian, and did not much revel in the thought.

The ship was waiting for him underneath the massive stone arch carrying Solitude. With the heavy shadow of the city cast upon it, complete with its own imposing size seen up close, made the vessel seem about as unappealing a destination as one could imagine. A floating death-trap. It was similar, though much larger, to the boat Castorius had arrived at Skyrim on. They'd had to sail for close to seven nauseating days, all around Black Marsh and Morrowind, to get there. Just thinking about it, he was not looking forward to returning home.

Perhaps he wouldn't need to.

Castorius pushed aside the discomfiture the sight of the ship was giving him, and took a deep breath. _This is what I do best._

Two imperial guards stood guard at the bottom of the gangplank. They bristled upon Castorius' approach. As he sought to pass, one of them stepped up to cut off his way. "Halt! This is a restricted area; imperial personnel only. State your business!"

Castoirus assumed an innocent smile. "Oh, excuse me. I have an important message to deliver." He pretended to squint at a piece of paper. "For one . . . Captain Cara."

"Caro," the guard corrected, and stuck out his hand. "Hand it over here, and we'll make sure it gets to her."

Castorius shook his head. "Sorry, can't do that," he said. "For her hands _only_."

The guard frowned, regarded Castorius with his eyes narrowed. "Aren't you a little old to be a messenger-boy?"

Castorius feigned indignation. "I'll have you know that I'm twenty-one years old!"

The guard looked him up and down. "Yes," he muttered. "Yes, now that I look at you, I see I was led astray by your worn-out aspect. I see now you're actually quite callow."

Castorius swallowed his indignation, genuine this time.

The guard stepped out of his way. "Alright, get on with it then. Cosma! Show the boy to Captain's cabin."

A young soldier waiting at the door waved at Castorius impatiently, routinely patted him down for any weapons, and then herded him forwards, deeper into the ship's confines.

After a few turns in the narrow passageways, and up a couple flights of stairs, they arrived at a large oaken door. The soldier gave the door his fist. "Captain! A courier here for you!"

After a second or two, a gruff female voice barked an answer. "Door's open. Let him in!"

The soldier opened the door, and Castorius stepped in. A female figure in an Imperial navy uniform stood hunched over a desk full of papers, her back turned toward the door. She waved a hand over her shoulder, said, "you're dismissed," in a somewhat distracted tone.

The soldier's heels clicked together. "Yes, Madam!"

"Close the door behind you."

"Ma'am."

The door slamming shut behind him, Castorius swallowed. The Captain remained immersed in her papers, and did nothing to acknowledge him. As the uncomfortable silence threatened to stretch, Castorius could feel his gall starting to wane, leaving in its place a sense of trepidation. What was he doing? _This is madness!_

He knew he had to do something before his mind started balking any worse, so he cleared his throat. "Um, madam?"

The Captain's head shot up, as if she'd forgotten there was someone else in the room with her. She looked over her shoulder, squinted at Castorius. "Yes, of course. Pardon me."

As she strode by Castorius, he was instantly taken by the woman's imposing presence. Strikingly tall, almost on level with him, and with a strong build and a respectable posture, it was easy to see how she'd ended up in her position. And while she likely had not fit the definition of "pretty" even in the days of her youth, the strong jaw and prominent nose, complete with the intense gray-blue eyes, inexorably brought the word "handsome" to mind.

It took a while for Castorius to correctly read the expectant frown on the woman's face as she regarded him, holding out her hand. "Oh, of course," he stirred. "Sorry." He fumbled for the piece of paper in his satchel, a letter penned by Roggie but signed—supposedly—by one General Mercius.

As he handed it over, he found his hand shaking.

The Captain did not appear to take notice of his nervousness. She hurriedly broke the seal, and frowned over the letter. She walked slowly back to her desk, seeming to forget all about the messenger's presence.

_So, what now?_ Castorius thought, as he watched Caro read the letter. She looked perplexed. Castorius had not idea as to the content of it, but it seemed as if Roggie had slipped some confounding prose therein.

" _What?_ " the Captain muttered at the paper.

Castorius' resolve wavered. It was now or never. He didn't know what the proper course of action was, so he decided to play it by ear. He swiftly undid the buckle of his belt, the laces of his tunic, and tore the undershirt off his back, let them all drop at his feet.

He was just in the process of kicking off his boots, when the Captain turned to him. "Who gave you this—" She trailed off, blinked at the sight of Castorius there, butt-naked as he was. "What . . . oh."

Castorius hesitated, feeling a bit like a schoolboy caught playing with himself. He assumed a smile groping for playful but which he knew for uncertain. He fanned out his arms. "A special delivery?"

"Oh?" replied Captain Caro. Then the perplexed crease of her forehead smoothened—like the full significance of the spectacle in front her eyes just struck home. " _Oh_." She reached behind her, trying to get the letter on the desk. She missed it by inches, and the paper went wafting down onto the floor. She started to walk slowly towards Castorius.

With every step—each taking about an hour in Castorius' mind—the expression on Caro's face traded more and more of its uncertainty for intrigue. A playful glint lit in her eyes previously so severe. She even looked to shed some of her years as she drew near.

And, to be completely honest, the nervousness within Castorius was also giving way to something else, like . . . _excitement_ , maybe?

Captain Caro stopped in front of him, a woman at least a good decade his senior. Castorius was still smiling, and it was starting to feel more genuine by the minute. Caro smiled back somewhat shyly. Slowly she reached her hand at him. Ever so slightly, she caressed the few hairs that grew on his chest, then started to follow the faint trail of it leading down to his bellybutton. As her hand traveled south, his breath picked up pace—though prompted by what exact emotion, he could not surely tell.

The light in the Captain's eyes got brighter, and the heat in their gaze warmer as her hand continued on its way. It brushed at the golden bush of Castorius' pubes, then took a gentle hold on LittleCastorius, gave it a caress.

The skin of her hand was perhaps a bit rough, but—maybe at least partly due to his alcohol-induced heightened sensitivity—he certainly did respond.

He caught his breath.

Captain Caro, tightening her hold, smiled. She reached with her other hand, locked the door, and started to tenderly but determinedly tow Castorius after her.

"Well, come on then, _big boy_ ," she cooed. "Let's see what you can do."

 


	18. Shipmating

_Well, this has certainly been interesting_ , Castorius thought.

After the fifth round that afternoon, he lay beside Captain Caro in the double bed of her cabin. They were both dappled with sweat and breathing heavily, the bedding crumpled up at their feet.

Caro reached down to pull the sheet over her legs. She let out a long exhale. "Oh boy!" she breathed.

"Yup," replied Castorius. This was about as much dialogue as they'd had all day.

The Captain wiped sweat off her brow, staring at the ceiling. There was an unmistakably dazed look to her. "That was . . . wow!"

"Yup." Castorius felt a wave of pride. It was one thing to perform your best when your companion was every little bit what you wanted, and when the whole business was built on a more, well, _traditional_ foundation. But this one felt like a special sort of triumph. Even though he was hard pressed to admit it had been more enjoyable than he'd expected.

He realized this had been the first time since his very first one that he'd been with a woman considerably his senior. There certainly seemed to be something to it. Roggie may have only been teasing him extolling the woman's vigor—likely he'd no idea—but it had to be conceded that that characterization was spot on. She also definitely knew what to do, knew her way around the tactical aspects of the male physique. And though they may have had aesthetics on their side, it was more than could be said about many of her younger counterparts.

No, it hadn't been too shabby at all. In between, as they'd taken breaks for Caro to go deal with her captainly duties, Castorius had also gotten to enjoy the finest of what the Imperial military kitchen had to offer. The Captain had given him free access to the fine foods that got brought straight in her cabin—as a sort of payment, as it were. It was as Castorius knew already: the officers got much better fed than the peons ever did. That, of course, went without saying. Was it too late for him to still start thinking about rising up in the hierarchy?

Probably.

The only problem—and it was by no means a small one—was that, thanks to the after-effect of the alcohol, his sense of taste was not at all at its best. It felt like such a waste to be having veal tenderloin in a red-wine-mushroom sauce, and not getting the full flavor of it. It was a crime, to be perfectly honest. And it was one of the chief reasons Castorius did not drink. Even if it _did_ seem to increase sensitivity in other areas somewhat . . .

In any case, he'd soon had other things to think about, as Captain Caro had run back to him—all flustered and eager like a young pup in the throes of her first heat. Castorius could not imagine there being a better endorsement of his capabilities. Well, that, and the quite interesting noises she'd make during the act itself. It was as if she'd been giving birth to Pure Ecstasy.

It couldn't but bring a smile to the lips.

_Is this what they mean by "foolish pride"?_

The thought struck Castorius out of the blue, almost as if uttered by somebody else, and he instantly felt his mood start to deflate. It was so not like him to put himself down after a success such as this. Had he not done all that had been expected of him? Not exceeded even his own expectations?

No, he realized. It was true. He'd thus far only managed to plow through—in a manner of speaking—only the first phase of his mission. The fun part, as it was. But the Captain was still far from knocked out. For all Castorius knew, she was just recharging a bit, and would soon be ready for another round. She did seem to have a much higher level of energy and intensity than did the women a decade or two younger. Maybe this happened to all of them? If so, the future might have had something to look forward to after all.

_Try to focus, now!_

Castorius still had to get Cara to ingest the potion. It was getting past five already, so he was starting to be in a hurry. It would be best if he could somehow get her tired out, then get a few drops in her while she was sleeping. That had been his original, haphazard plan, but anything he'd done so far only seemed to rile her up further. So what was he going to do?

_Talk to her._

What a novel idea! He turned on his side to regard the woman, her chest still rising and falling heavily from the exertion, her cheeks flushed and her hair tousled. Her hands were tucked behind her neck. The pale skin of her naked torso was lightly speckled with freckles, and there were a few faint scars running across it. Blond tufts of hair stuck out of her armpits, and her medium-sized breasts hung down towards her sides. Her nipples were large and brown. Castorius passingly wondered if she'd had any children.

He reached out and brushed a strand of hair off her face.

She turned her face towards him and smiled, looking somehow very innocent. "Hi," she said.

"Hi," said Castorius, smiling back at her.

"This couldn't have come in a better time, you know. I've been _really_ stressed out lately."

"That's good to hear," Castorius replied, a bit uncertain.

Captain Caro propped herself up on her elbows. "Really, though. You have no idea. To command a big ship like this?" She shook her head. "You got to be a real _ball-buster._ Otherwise your crew will start thinking you weak. The next thing you know, things are getting out of hand, complaints start to pile up, and soon there's some know-it-all young hot-shot soaked up behind the ears, looking to snatch up your position."

She looked into the distance, no longer looking all that happy. "Bastards," she muttered.

Castorius blinked, looking for the next line. It did not come.

Then she looked back to him, and her features softened. "Anyway, you have no idea how good it feels to let go for a while. To just be weak." She brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. "Let someone else be the strong one for a while." Her hand went to caress one of Castorius' pecs. "Nice and strong . . . "

The situation was quickly slipping out of his hands. "Um," he said. "Have you been Captain for long?"

Caro's hand stopped caressing his chest, and she let it drop. For a second, she nearly looked taken aback by Castorius' question, but then gave him a gentle, nearly maternal look. "Probably longer than you've been _legal_ ," she said. A playful spark in her eye said that she did not find that thought only amusing, but titillating as well. She gave a little girlish giggle, and leaned back on her cushion. "What is it that you really do, anyway? Are you a . . . professional?"

He should have seen that one coming of course, but was caught off guard, and felt a stab of indignation. "No!"

"I didn't mean to offend," said Captain Caro. "I just thought it would explain your sure touch, is all." Castorius wasn't sure if she said that merely to soothe him, but decided to take it as a compliment nonetheless. "Thought maybe someone I know sent you to me as, you know, _a gift_."

"Or maybe your crew did. You know, to mess with you."

Caro's head shot up then, and an alarmed look lit in her eyes. A potential of violence crept into her being. At that moment, all tensed up, she looked quite dangerous.

Castorius raised his hand into a calming gesture. "Take it easy, I was only joking! Nobody bought me, okay?"

It took a few seconds for the wariness to die out in Caro's gaze. But slowly her look softened up again, and she relaxed back down. "Don't joke like that around me, alright? There's some things I take very seriously."

"I'm sorry," Castorius said softly. He reached out his hands to caress Caro's face.

She closed her eyes. "Well, that's alright," she said. Castorius could feel her soften up. "You couldn't have known."

To his great relief, she didn't ask any more questions. He'd not have any answers at the ready.

But it was clear this talking thing wasn't going too well. Maybe if he'd just get her to unwind some more. He moved his hand from her face up to her hair, smoothed the sweat-moistened curls. "Just relax," he purred. He gently played with her earlobe, as he'd sometimes noticed that having a soothing effect.

Captain Caro grabbed Castorius' arm stroking her. She slowly ran her hand up its length, then squeezed her fingers around his. She started pulling his hand lower, past the mounds of her breasts, down to her belly, and beyond. She placed the hand over her sex.

_I see._

The Captain opened her eyes, giving Castorius a very earnest, almost pleading, look. "Would you?"

Castorius smiled, but only on the outside. "Of course."

And so he did.

* * *

Castorius jolted awake and quickly sat up. It took him a few moments to determine his exact location, and to figure out why in the world he was naked and in a strange bed.

Then reality whooshed back to him, and the first coherent, if panicky, thought to form in his mind was: _Oh gods! What time is it?_

His heart lurched as he gazed at the clock on the wall. Seven already! He was late! Did the entire mission hinge on his success here? Would they be canceling the whole thing if they thought he wasn't carrying his weight? Was this the only chance they had? And if so, what would Ulfric do? What about Captain Malaney?

The memory of the unsettling sea captain was enough to expel the last specks of sleepiness from him consciousness. He'd not want to face that man angry—to Oblivion with Ulfric. Maybe he would just have to stay here as Captain Caro's love-stallion. Certainly that wasn't the worst one imaginable as far as fates went.

_Speaking of which._ Only now remembering that the said Captain was still there next to him, Castorius looked down at the woman, and found her on her back, eyes closed and wheezing . _Well, finally!_

This was likely the one chance he'd get. His clothes, along with the vial containing the potion, were still lying on the ground close to the door, so he'd only have to sneak off to fetch them without waking her up. That shouldn't have been too impossible a feat to accomplish.

Very carefully he started rise. The bed creaked and groaned under his shifting weight, each and every squeak grating his ears and his nerves. He held his breath. Almost there.

Then, right as he had gotten his legs over the side, he heard Caro say something, the words just escaping him. He squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. _Damn it, did I wake her?_

He looked back. No—she had merely been mumbling in her sleep. Though she did have a little frown on her, and she'd also pulled her hands over her naked torso, as if trying to hug herself. She seemed a bit restless.

_She's cold,_ Castorius realized. The air in the cabin was chilly now that the heat of their fornication had faded. He'd better put a blanket on her before the cold woke her up.

He reached back toward the foot of the bed where the bedding once more lay in a crunched-up bundle. He grabbed the counterpane, and slowly and carefully started to pull it up the length of her. To avoid creaking the bed any more than was strictly necessary, he had to lie in an awkward position, propped up on one elbow and legs dangling off the side. His cheek was brushing lightly against the tuft of hair about Caro' sex as he worked the blanket slowly past her knees. He did his best to get it on her without it touching her skin too much.

He startled as he felt something land on top of his head. Caro's hand. "Mmmm," she muttered. "What are you doing?" Her voice was still clouded by sleep.

_Damn it! Damn it!_ Castorius looked, and saw that her eyes were still closed."Nothing," he said.

Cara smiled a dreamy sort of smile, and her hand started to stroke Castorius' head. "Mmmmm, no?"

"No," said Castorius. _What now?!_ At a loss for what the proper course of action ought to be, he did what came most naturally to him. He lowered his face onto Cara's warm, soft belly, and started to plant kisses around the navel. "Nothing." He kissed it a bit lower. Then lower. And lower still. "Nothing at all."

"Oh?" Cara said, her eyes still closed. Her breathing got heavier, and her smile bigger, more sensuous. Castorius buried his face in her bush. Her fingers grabbed harder at his hair as he went lower. " _Oh!_ "

" _Oh", indeed._


	19. Lights out!

Castorius stood naked at the foot of Captain Caro's bed, regarding the sleeping woman sprawled on top of it. _An oddly endearing sight,_ he thought. She looked peaceful now, the way they said the dead looked. Though, based on the deep red hue of her face, the woman was very much alive. She also looked comfortable now that Castorius had gotten a blanket on her, and she had fallen into a deep slumber.

Now it was the time to make sure she'd stay that way.

Castorius turned over the little red vial in his hand, the liquid sloshing within. He pulled the stopper out and sniffed, only to quickly withdraw from the pungent smell. _What is this stuff, anyway?_

It was obviously one of those questions better left unpondered.

Walking by the sacked out Captain, he felt the grip of hesitation. _She's sleeping so soundly. Maybe this won't even be necessary._ He shook his head at the desperate thought. This was no time for second guessing.

Then why did he have such a bad feeling about this? It's not like this was going to kill her? Unless . . . could that be what Roggie had really meant by saying that she'd "stay out". Castorius shook his head again. He would have been told if the mission was about _killing_ the Captain.

Right?

Castorius stifled the paranoid thoughts and feelings of guilt. Carefully, he took the vial close to Caro's slightly parted lips. It was getting close to eight o'clock, and there would be no other chances. This was the one shot he'd get.

If the others were even waiting around anymore. Could it be that they'd concluded he'd failed and taken off?

_Focus!_ Castorius was just about to pour out the liquid when the realization hit him. _How much was I supposed to use?_ _The whole thing?_ Judging by the smell, this was some strong stuff. Maybe it was only supposed to be a few drops? Perhaps any more that necessary _would_ be lethal? _Curse you, Roggie, and your inadequate instructions!_

In reality, though, it was himself he should curse. He'd been in such a hurry to get the assignment done and over with that he'd forgotten to ask. Always in a hurry. _So like you,_ Janus _. So_ very much _like you._

Castorius shook off all the perturbation and self-doubt. It was too late to ask questions now. Too late for regrets. He would simply start with a few drops, see what kind of effect it had, and then apply more if necessary. _Maybe she'll sleep for a thousand years . . ._

_Shut it!_

He let the fist two drops fall into the opening between Caro's lips. Perfect hit. She smacked her mouth, and gave a frown like a child having a taste of something very sour. Castorius cringed.

Captain Caro, however, appeared to get over the taste very quickly. She swallowed, and went on with her sleep.

Castorius felt his heart pound hard in his chest. There wasn't any significant change in the woman's being, though maybe she did breath a bit more deeply now. To make sure, he decided to get a few more drops in. Caro reacted much the same as the first time. Still nothing special. Castorius tipped the bottle over Caro's mouth another time. The stuff was almost gone. He shrugged, and just poured the rest of the vial's content in the woman's mouth.

He hadn't spilled any of it, which seemed like an awful petty thing to be proud of.

He stepped back. Nothing in Captain Caro seemed to have changed one way or another. He didn't see any other way but to accept that the stuff had worked. And at least she was still breathing.

Then he rushed to the windows at the back of the cabin, fiddled one open, and stuck his head out. The early night was still clear and the air crisp, but some mists were already starting to blow in from the sea. For some reason they had moved the ship away from the shore, and it was now sitting anchored in the middle of the river-mouth. He looked around, saw nothing at first, but then made out a rowboat waiting right down below him. There were several dark figures huddled in it.

"Hey!" Castorius whispered as loudly as he could, waving his hand.

One of the figures looked up. "Well, it's about time!" Roggie, that. "Sure took you long enough!"

"There were some complications," explained Castorius.

Even from up here, he could hear Roggie snorting. "Yes, surely. Now, step back from the window."

Castorius did as told, and backed up a couple steps. Right as he was starting to wonder what exactly it was he was supposed to be waiting for, something lunged in through the open window, and he flinched.

A piece of metal with multiple hooks attached to it landed on the floor in front of him. A grappling hook. There was a rope at the end of it, and as someone pulled at the rope, the hook was dragged across the boards. The device attached itself to the edge of the window. A couple firm yanks at the rope, and it went taut. Someone started climbing up.

At that moment, Castorius realized he was still in his birthday suit. He dashed to the pile of his crumpled up clothes, picked up the pair of breeches, started pulling them on. He'd just about gotten the pants on himself when Roggie's head appeared in the open window.

"Hello there, " the Nord said, then jumped into the cabin, looking around as if to ensure the coast was really clear. He smirked at Castorius standing there all topless and flustered. "Complications, huh?"

"You could have told me how much of the stuff to give her." Castorius did his best to assume a stern disposition, hands balled in fists like a wife waiting for her drunkard husband to stumble though the door in the middle of the night.

Roggie tensed up. "How much did you give her?"

"The whole thing. Why?"

"You did _what_?" Roggie slapped a hand on his cheek. "Oh, Castor. You've killed her!"

Castorius' heart took a mean lurch. " _What_!?"

Roggie, however, didn't stop to enjoy his shock for too long, but waved a hand and laughed. "Nah, just messing with you. She's fine. A few drops would've been enough, but the whole thing is alright too."

Castorius did his best to try and settle his nerves, weighing sufficiently harsh words to reprimand this supposed "friend" of his.

Roggie narrowed his eyes, smiled obliquely. "You seemed awful concerned for a second there," he said. "Did you two get... uh, _close_?"

"Yeah," Castorius rolled his eyes, "'cause falling madly in love with someone is the only possible reason to not want to kill them!"

"Never took you for the softhearted type, is all," replied Roggie, shrugging. "Guess I've misjudged you."

"I guess so," Castorius muttered.

Roggie peeked at the sleeping alcove where Captain Caro lay on her back. She was breathing slowly and deeply. Roggie nodded, satisfied. "Well, be that as it may, you've certainly knocked her out." He gave Castorius what was likely meant as an encouraging smile. "Good work, Castor!"

"Yeah, sure," said Castorius concomitantly. "Don't mention it." _Literally. Ever._

Roggie stuck his head out the window and gave a whistle. Despite himself, Castorius cringed. So far he was not too impressed by the supposed discretion of these supposed professional criminals.

"Get decent, why don't you," Roggie said, turning to him. "We're going to need you on the door. To make sure nobody tries to butt in while we work." He walked by the table containing remnants of the Captain's—or, in truth, Castorius'—dinner. He grabbed an onion, and took a big bite.

Another figure appeared at the window. Castorius clenched his teeth together. Who else should it be but the sneering dimwit, Radd the Adventurer, himself. The man, thankfully, said nothing, but could of course not be expected to refrain from beaming like a twit.

Castorius went to get his shirt from the floor. "What are you going to do, anyway?" He nodded towards Radd, who from the cabin's bookshelf picked up a volume of _Uncommon Taste_ by The Gourmet. As if this rube could appreciate such an artful approach to food preparation any better than, say, a pig could _Mixed Unit Tactics_ by Codus Callonus. "What do you need _him_ for?"

Radd paused his paging to answer for himself. "Oh, I'm merely observing."

Castorius blinked. "Obser—" he frowned at Roggie. "What is this, some sort of educational field-trip now?"

"Relax," replied Roggie, his mouth full of onion. He started to usher Castorius toward the door. "Just go stand watch, and make sure nobody catches us with our pants around our ankles. So to speak."

Another figure entered though the window. It was the Nord woman who'd been with Jaree-Ra earlier.

"What is it that you're going to do, anyway?" Castorius asked, looking over his shoulder at the expressionless woman.

"Never you mind," replied Roggie, shoving him out the door. "We've got this under control."

"Wait!" said Castorius before Roggie shut the door. "What do I say in case somebody comes? A lowly courier hardly has the authority to stop anyone."

"Don't cut yourself short," Roggie smirked. "I'm sure they too have heard loud and clear the full scope of your talents."

They _too_? "Um, yeah . . ."

"Just say the Captain promoted you on account of your, er, _outstanding performance_. Then request them to please kindly piss off."

"'Promoted'," Castorius muttered, "well, I _do_ deserve at least some sort of medal."

Roggie looked at him though the crack of the door, something like pity in his eyes. "That bad, huh?"

_Well, not really, actually,_ Castorius thought. He replied by simply waving Roggie off.

Roggie shrugged, and closed the door.

Castorius sighed, then positioned himself by the entrance. He shook his head, and quietly cursed to himself while buttoning up his shirt. "Do all the hard work and then just get kicked out," he grumbled. "I'll showyou 'the full scope of my talents' . . . "

His head snapped up. "Oh, for the love of . . ."There was clearly the sound of steps on the staircase. And it was getting louder. The sound of somebody softly clearing their throat.

_All that time undisturbed, and_ now _they come!_

He felt a sudden cold stab of alarm. _Maybe they suspect something!_ Perhaps they'd heard the clattering nitwits climbing up the back of the ship. Maybe somebody had even spotted them!

But, judging by the sound of it, there was only one person coming up. And they didn't sound to be in too much of a hurry, either.

Castorius calmed himself, tried to assume as cool an exterior as he could muster. Whoever it was, they were almost there now.

The young soldier who had escorted him to the door earlier—Cosma, was it?—appeared at the top of the stairs. The man looked to start mildly when he saw Castorius there. Then he frowned.

"Evening," he said. Accompanying his furrowed brow was perhaps a shade of beguilement. "Is everything . . . alright?"

Refusing to be abashed, Castorius smiled. "Everything's just peachy," he said buoyantly. "Everything honky dory down there?"

The man faltered a touch. "Uh, sure, of course." He frowned. "Is the Captain, er . . ."

"Oh, yes," replied Castorius. "She's just great!" _Calm down, now._ Castorius brought his act down a notch. "She's . . . resting." _Why don't you just say "recovering", you overweening twat!_

"Aha," replied the soldier. "Well, regardless. I'm going to need to speak with her."

Castorius felt a touch of panic. "Uh . . ." _Think, man, think!_ "I'm afraid I can't let you do that." _What!?_

" _Excuse me_?" the man said, frowning.

"Um . . . " _Yeah, let's hear that again!_ "I mean, it would probably be better she were not disturbed."

"I see," replied Cosma, and there was a change in his composure. He straightened up, and the tone of his voice tightened. "Of course. But happen as she does to be a _captain of a Imperial Warship_ , I feel quite strongly that my urgent business is more important than her taking a beauty sleep after _banging away all gods-damned afternoon_!"

Yes, there was definitely a touch of vexation about the man.

Castorius opened his mouth. What he was going to say would be as much a surprise to him as anyone listening.

It would, however, always remain a mystery, as Cosma silenced him with a sharply uplifted hand. " _And_ I'm afraid that a mere word from some sexed-up delivery-boy is not quite big enough a deterrent for me to insist that that door be opened. As in _right fucking now!"_

The young man's entire face was now a livid scarlet. Castorius was struck utterly speechless. He was probably at least ten years older than this soldier, but at that moment it felt exactly the opposite. He didn't see any other choice but to do as the man said. What would happen then?

He was just about to offer his meek acquiescence, when there was a voice calling out from the cabin.

"Oh, Jaaanuus!" It cooed. At first Castorius was sure it was Roggie goofing around, but it was undoubtedly Caro's voice, only more . . . kittenish. "What's going on out there?"

Castorius blinked at the young soldier, who returned with a dumbfounded expression of his own. "Uh," he said, "Cosma here to see you."

"Sergeant Cosma!" the man hissed.

"And what does he want?"

_Sergeant_ Cosma opened his mouth to reply.

"Oh, Castor!" the voice continued. "Could you please ask him to come again at a later time. I'm still all naked. And sore."

Cosma's mouth snapped shut.

"And all _sticky_!"

It was actually worth it all to see the young soldier's face right then. All color left it—no doubt to look for some less embarrassing situation to be in. His already downturned lips twisted like he was suddenly having big difficulties holding back his lunch. Castorius thought it might have been the face of a child walking into his parents' bedroom only to find them engrossed in horizontal folk-dancing.

Castorius gave the man an inquisitive look.

"Uh," Cosma said, having recovered just enough to open his mouth. He raised his voice to be heard through the door. "That's quite alright, Captain. I'll be back at another time." He gave Castorius a quick, loathing glare, before turning on his heels and rushing back down the stairs.

It only took a second for Castorius' amusement over the young sergeant's abrupt retreat to fade. He frowned at the door, cocked his ear towards it. There was no sound from within. "Hello?"

"Is that bumptious dolt gone?" Roggie, this time.

"He's gone," Castorius replied. "Can I come inside?"

"What, _again?_ " Roggie snorted. "Yeah, get your arse in here."

Castorius poked his head inside. At first look, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. There was Roggie, Radd the Adventurer by his side, both smirking like the pair of sneering twats that they were. Behind them stood Captain Caro, in her—

_What?_

Captain Caro stood behind the two men, wearing the full ensemble of her navy uniform.

Castorius blinked at the apparition, his mouth gaping open. "What the—"

Roggie laughed, waved a beckoning hand. "Get in here."

Castorius closed the door behind him, still unable to quite wrap his cranium around the sight in front of his eyes. "Huh?"

Captain Caro flashed him a sweet smile. "Hello there, stallion," she cooed. Radd the Adventurer, the little prick, bent over laughing.

Castorius hardly noticed. "Uh . . ."

Roggie stepped up beside him, clapped a hand over his shoulder. "That's not our Captain," he said.

Castorius turned to look at the Nord's eyes gleaming with amusement. "Huh?"

Roggie gestured past Castorius' head. "Over there."

Where he pointed to, on the floor, lay the figure of a person, hands and legs tied up, and a sack over its head. There were the ragged clothes worn by the strange Nord woman earlier on it, but the strong figure was obviously Captain Caro's.

"That's—" Castorius tore his eyes off the figure on the floor, and pointed at the other Captain Caro. "She's—"

"That's it," Roggie encouraged, "you're getting there."

Castorius stepped towards the woman standing there, to get a closer look. There was an uncanny resemblance, but now that he thought of it, there was also something a little different about her. He could not put his finger on it, but something about the way she carried herself felt slightly off.

The Nord woman. This was her, only it was not. Now that he thought of it, Castorius realized she'd had a certain rough look about her that she did share with Captain Caro. Only, that wasn't the full story. There was obviously more to it, so accurately had she assumed all the details of the other woman's visage. _Of course!_ "Magic," he mumbled.

Roggie lazily clapped his hands together a couple times. "Bravo! You really are every bit as bright as you look, Castor."

The faux-Caro smiled, and slowly walked right over to him. "So, lover-boy. See anything you like?"

Around them, the two men laughed. Castorius felt his blood surge. He had had it up to here with being laughed at. So, instead of being played like the town tambourine, he decided to just go along with the joke. _Two can play at this game!_ He put on a playful smile, looked the woman boldly in the eye, and placed his hand on the side of her thigh, started to caress it.

"Well, certainly," he breathed, dropping his note to a comical hoarse baritone. "Want to pick up from where we left off?"

The woman returned the stare, her lips twitched. She lay her hand on Castorius' crotch, and immediately he felt a response. She smiled at him.

Then she grabbed a firm hold on Castorius' fruits, and his eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

The woman gave him a cold sneer. "I don't much go for folks with these."

"Got that," Castorius wheezed.

"Good," said the woman. She let go of his jewels, and Castorius breathed out in relief.

After taking a split second to recover, he shot a furious look at the sneering pair of men. "At least there's _one_ person with some stones here," he snapped, unclear about whom he even meant.

"Indeed, indeed," replied Roggie. He pursed his lips, looked around. "Well, we're about done here."

"Yeah, get going," the Nord-as-Caro said. "I have some captaining to do." At that she walked out the door.

Not long after, the shrill sound of her screaming at her new underlings could be heard from downstairs. Clearly she was enjoying this already.

"I think the ship's in safe hands, everybody," Roggie said smiling. "Let's go."

Castorius gestured at the figure on the floor. "What about the real Captain?"

"We'll take her along, of course."

"What will happen to her?"

Roggie smiled. "Worry not, old pal. No harm will come to your new girlfriend. We simply keep her out of the way while our decoy works here. Afterwards, she'll be released, of course. Unharmed."

"Uh huh."

"Though," Roggie added, "if I were you I might not go seek her out any time soon afterwards. She might just be a little sore at you."

"Thanks so much for the heads-up," muttered Castorius.

"Don't mention it!" Roggie beamed.

Radd went and lifted the out cold woman over his shoulders. He made it look laughably easy, too, though Castorius could have told based on experience she was not the most light of build. Guess there was something the man was good for, after all.

Castorius climbed onto the windowsill. It was not a particularly fun descent, lowering himself onto the boat waiting down by the rope. The coarse thread chafed at the the skin of his palms, and he nearly slipped and fell a couple times. His heart was beating fast once he finally hit the vessel. There was a man waiting there, a small and barren fellow of indefinable age, holding on to the oars, staring at the mist. He did not acknowledge the newcomer in one way or another, and Castorius himself was not looking to make new friends.

Soon after, Radd came down, rocking the boat. He'd climbed down nimbly despite the unconscious woman he was carrying over his shoulder. He didn't even appear to be the least bit winded.

_Twat,_ Castorius thought.

Once Roggie had come down, the man with the oars started to row the boat towards the shore.

"Don't you think we should have taken the rope off?" Castorius asked. The thing was still hanging at the back of the ship.

Roggie shrugged. "The new Captain Caro will take care of it."

Castorius didn't bother to reply.

At the shore, there was a small group of people waiting for them beside a horse and a carriage. Jaree-Ra stood at the middle of the posse, regarding the shoring men with cold, disengaged eyes.

The people standing around Jaree-Ra came to get Captain Caro's limp body from Radd once they were off the boat. They carried her to the carriage, and placed her down at the back. Immediately after, they started to take their leave.

"Where are they taking her?" Castorius asked.

The Reptilian looked to take his measure. "She will be taken good care of. Of that you'll have my word."

_I just wonder how much that is worth._ "Alright," said Castorius. "I'll take that."

"Will you, now?" Castorius was not an expert in reading Argonian faces, but Jaree-Ra definitely had a smile on his—if an entirely unfriendly one.

"Well, that takes care of that," said Roggie, walking by. He fished another pouch of coin out of his satchel, and handed it to Jaree-Ra. "Here's the other half."

The Argonian took the bag, weighed it in his hand, and looked to have a frown on him. "It's heavier than the previous one."

Roggie smiled. "Indeed it is. There's a little bonus in there."

"I see," replied Jaree-Ra. "And I take it it's not out of the kindness of your heart you grant me this . . . _bonus_."

Roggie spread his arms. "You got my number!" he gave a little chuckle. "No, you're right. There is another little thing I thought maybe you'd be able to take care of for me."

"I'm all ears," the Argonian said.

"Excellent," said Roggie. "See, the thing is, there's this certain man, Commodore Fair-Shield by name. There's a chance he'll give us some trouble, and—well—it would probably be good someone had a little talk with him. You know, someone whose word carries a sufficiently heavy weight."

Slowly, Jaree-Ra nodded. "I see. And where might I find this Commodore Fair-Shield?"

"He's got a house around the border of Hjaalmarch and The Pale. I'll show you on a map, and you and your men can go and have a little chat with him. Sound good?"

Jaree-Ra nodded again. "Consider it done."

"Oh, and another thing," Roggie said, a hint of wariness about him. "He's got a family living there. A wife and two children, I believe."

There was no speck of hesitation in the Argonian's demeanor. "It will be of no consequence."

"Hey!" Castorius cut in. "Whoa, what are we talking about, here?" He had developed a very uncomfortable feeling listening to the two men talk.

They both turned to give him a serious look. "Don't worry yourself about it, Castor," said Roggie.

"No, no. It's too late now. Are we talking about _killing_ here?"

The Argonian cocked his head just a trifle. "What's wrong? Does it have conscience all of a sudden?"

Castorius felt enraged. "Hey! I agreed to be a part of a robbery. No one said anything about a murder!"

Jaree-Ra shrugged. "No one asked you to be a part of a murder."

"You might as well!"

Jaree-Ra looked as if he had something a little more pressing to say, when Roggie stepped between them. "Hold up. Now, no one said anything about killing." He turned to Jaree-Ra. "Right?"

" _I_ didn't," said the pirate.

Roggie looked at Castorius. "See? So, no one will have to die. But this situation does need solving. What do _you_ suggest?"

Castorius thought about it for a feverish second. He opened his mouth, for whatever would come out. "I could go talk to him," he said, and thought the sound Jaree-Ra made was a snort.

Roggie looked to consider it, nodded. "Alright, let's say you will. What will you tell him?"

_Warn him of the killers after him, and tell him to start running now!_ "I could try and persuade him."

Jaree-Ra, clearly snorting this time, said, "Perhaps he'll try the same tactic as with Captain Caro."

Roggie made a halting gesture at the Argonian, and gave Castorius a sympathetic look. "If anyone, I think you might be able to pull it off." He held a pause. "Okay, you can give it a shot."

Another snort from the Argonian pirate.

"Thank you, Roggie."

Roggie smiled. "Don't mention it." He got serious. "I'll just mark the location on your map. You have until tomorrow night. Better think of something quick." He turned to Jaree-Ra, nodded towards the Alessia's Trial, sitting there all dark and ominous in the gathering mist. "How long do you think she'll need."

The Argonian shrugged. "I'd say she'll be ready by tomorrow evening at the latest. She's effective."

"Right," said Roggie. "Just to play safe, let's say day after tomorrow. If I let Captain Malaney know he'll have his ship by then. Have it delivered to the coast by The Pale come dark. I trust that won't be a problem?"

Jaree-Ra's eyes were on Castorius. "Worry not about us." To Castorius he said, "I hope you don't expect me to hand over the extra gold for you to do my job?"

Castorius waved an aggravated hand. "Never mind that!" he grunted. "I'm not doing this for money."

The Argonian's sneer was not the kind you'd give a man whose outspoken moral conviction you found admirable. "Well," he said then, turning to Roggie. "A pleasure doing business with you."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned around and walked off.

"Okay, then," Roggie said, smiling at Castorius. "So that went well!"

"Hmm," said Castorius, staring after the retreating pirate.

"I do hope you know what you're doing, Castor."

Castorius looked at his friend. _I haven't the faintest of ideas._ "Trust me."

Roggie nodded. Radd joined him at his side, and, shockingly, his mouth was drawn in a straight line for once.

Castorius looked again after Jaree-Ra, who was now walking underneath the stone arch carrying Solitude. He should go after him, and quickly take care of that other business. There was only so much he was willing to deal with the deeply unpleasant man.

Then Roggie's arm was over his shoulder again. "Well, me and Radd here are off to Dragon Bridge to unwind a little. Care to join us?"

Castorius, shaking himself free, said, "I'd love to, but I'm afraid there's something else I need to do."

"You're insatiable!" said Roggie, cackling.

Castorius sighed. "Yeah, sure. Whatever you say."

"Alright," Roggie said. "Suit yourself. You ready, Radd?"

"I was born ready," replied the long-haired Nord. Castorius' back was turned to them, so they couldn't see him rolling his eyes.

"Let's go then. See you at The Pale, Castor. Day after tomorrow, after six P.M. And Castor?" As Castorius turned to regard Roggie, the man's expression was completely serious. "Good luck with the other thing."

"Thanks."

Roggie and Radd started to walk toward the bridge above the East Empire Trading Company's warehouse. Roggie looked over his shoulder one more time at Castorius still standing still. "Don't have _too much_ of a good time, now!" He laughed.

Castorius waited for the two men to be out of sight, before turning around and dashing after the Argonian.

_Don't worry, Roggie,_ he thought, running. _That I will definitely not do._

 


	20. Greetings from a Prince

The Argonian was a damned fast walker.

By the time Castorius caught up to Jaree-Ra, he was already getting pretty badly winded. _When did I get so out of shape?_

But of course: any harder exercise he'd done for the past year had only been aimed at toning his muscles. The aerobic training that Aldis was so adamant his men did, that Castorius had found ways of avoiding a good while ago. Not the least of the reasons he was probably not the Guard Captain's favorite subordinate.

That and the fact he so despised being in the role of the subordinate in the first place.

"Hey, wait up!" he wheezed after Jaree-Ra.

The pirate stopped abruptly, and turned around in a flash. His eyes narrowed down to virulent slits. "What do you still want?" he snarled.

Castorius stopped in front of the spiteful reptile, steadied his breath. "Look, I know you don't much care for me." _And I, for one, can hardly stand the sight of your guts._ "But this is strictly business. Here."

He reached in his satchel and brought out the stone Sanguine had given him. He could see a very brief, but quite genuine, flash of greed in the Argonian's eyes. They immediately retained their default look of contemptuous disenchantment, however.

Still, the little flash was enough to give Castorius that first glow of triumph. "I, uh, found this at Captain Caro's cabin. Think it might be worth something?"

The Argonian offhandedly snatched the jewel from Castorius, regarded it with an unimpressed expression. He turned it round and round, lifted it against the moonlight, flicked it with his claw and pressed it close to his ear. Castorius was convinced it was all for show.

After a fracture of second of hesitation, the pirate tossed it back to him, said, "Hardly, I'm afraid."

"Oh," Castorius looked down at the blood-red jewel, feigning disappointment.

"Of course," said the Argonian slowly. "I could take it off your hands anyway. Stolen that it is, no one else is going to give you anything for it."

Castorius looked up, going for hopeful. "You would? How much would you be willing to pay?"

Jaree-Ra looked to think on it. "I am in a good mood today . . . " W _ould hate to see you on a bad day!_ "So I'll give you a hundred gold. And that's very generous."

It was hard going not to start coughing out of astonishment in the face of the man's insolence. _A hundred gold!_ The thing was easily worth ten times as much! Probably a _hundred_ times. The sheer audacity of these pirates was simply breathtaking. But then, this was what they did for their living.

Castorius pursed his lips, then nodded. "Alright, I'll take it."

Jaree-Ra smiled. "Of course you will."

The pirate reached inside one of the pouches afforded to him by Roggie, and paid Castorius his gold. As he'd gotten the jewel and shoved it in his satchel, he gave Castorius a quick look—contemptuous as ever—said, "And a good night to you," turned on his heel and left.

Castorius waited for a while, enjoying every bit of the relief from the Argonian's departure, contemplating the next course of action. He was just about to make his move, when Jaree-Ra turned to look over his shoulder. Castorius smiled, waved at the pirate, feeling like an utter moron.

The Argonian pirate likely shared that assessment; he simply walked on, looking to shake his head.

A few more heartbeats. Then, when the man did not look again, Castorius darted into the shrubs.

If it had been difficult to keep up with Jaree-Ra on the road, it was doubly so in the midst of trees. The ground was wet, and the insides of his raggedy leather boots were soaked in a matter of seconds. He kept almost slipping on the mossy roots of trees, and their branches kept smacking him across the face. The whole time he had a hard time keeping his sight on the Argonian, who was walking as fast as ever. He was getting out of breath, and a sharp pain had developed at a point in his chest, in the flesh between the ribs.

Then, finally, the pirate stopped. His saurian head snapped around, and Castorius dived into the undergrowth. He rolled over, and hid behind a tree.

After he'd gotten enough courage together to take a look, the Argonian had already turned away. Jaree-Ra was looking out toward the sea.

_What is he doing now?_

Then the answer came into view. A rowboat splashing towards the shore. Castorius frowned, then peered farther into the mist, from where the boat had come.

_Aw, really?_

There was another ship there, hulking at a safe distance off the shore. There was little doubt that this was the Blackblood's ship, and that Jaree-Ra was about to board it.

Then how in Oblivion was Castorius supposed to follow him? He was not much of a swimmer, even if he had not hated it in the first place. And that was some frigid looking water.

_There's just no way!_ he thought in frustration. There was only so much trouble he was willing to go through for that over-sized monster from Beyond. Let him take care of his own mess!

Castorius made to leave, but as he turned his head, something poked him in the cheek. The pointy end of a blade. It took a while to focus his eyes off the sharp steel contacting his flesh, and into the ugly sneering face at the other end of it. But either way he viewed it, all of a sudden the situation was not looking too good. "Uh," he said.

"Well, what have we here," said the dirty, grinning man holding the sword.

"Uh, it's not what it looks like." Castorius didn't even want to think about how it must have looked.

"No?" replied the man. "Guess things seldom are." He thrust the blade lightly. "Up you get!"

With his hands lifted above his head, and the man's sword pressed against his back, Castorius marched out of the woods under the mirthful eyes of Jaree-Ra.

"Look what I found, boss," the man behind Castorius gloated.

"I see," the Argonian said. His green eyes regarded Castorius with all the sympathy you'd give a cockroach. "You're not very good at this, you know? I could've heard you rustling around in the bushes all the way from my ship. Why are you following me."

"I wasn't—"

"Don't lie to me!" Jaree-Ra snapped. "Lie to me again, and I'll cut your tongue out! You got that?"

Castors nodded dumbly.

"Good. Now, who sent you? Was it that Roggvir? It was him, wasn't it? Who is he working for, Malaney? I knew there was something fishy about that man. What does he want with me?"

Too many things at once, none of which Castorius had anything to say anything to. "I'm . . ." he fumbled for a good lie, "not working for anyone. My business is my own." Already he'd seemed to forget Jaree-Ra's threat.

Luckily, so had the Argonian. He cocked his head. "Really? Well that's very interesting." He waved an angry hand. "We'll take him along. I'll get the answers from you yet. Don't you doubt that for a second."

Castorius could do nothing but swallow the last bit of saliva left on his tongue.

Then he was waterborne once more, sitting in very unhappy slouch in the middle of the rowboat. The ugly man with the sword sat next to him, the sword resting in his lap like Castorius didn't pose any real threat. Which, of course, was spot on. One pirate sat at the front rowing the boat, and Jaree-Ra lounged sprawled at the back, arms on the railing, looking to take in the scenery. There was, of course, nothing to see out there save mist.

And onto the ship they climbed. It was certainly a much smaller, dingier vessel than Alessia's Trial, and even more so than Captain Malaney's Brinerunner had been. Castorius pondered passingly whether in the world of inter-pirate competition, it was the captain with the nicer boat who had the advantage, or did it perhaps come down to who had the most decrepit, run-down ship but could still somehow manage to keep it afloat.

What finer, more abstract thoughts there might have been in his head, however, were soon expelled as he was shoved towards the middle of the ship's deck. The few pirates that populated it—shirts on these ones, if raggedy ones at that—didn't give him any more than the most passing of looks. They had a somewhat emaciated look about them one and all.

"Let's get this thing moving, then!" Jaree-Ra barked.

"Aye, Cap!" replied a slightly better fed looking man, over his head a bandana soaked through with filth. "You heard him, lazy sods!" he roared at the other men, then looked at Castorius with his dull, watery eyes. "Who's this, then?"

"A special guest we're having over," Jaree-Ra said. "He and I are going to have a little heart-to-heart."

The man looked pensive. "I hope you're not planning on working all night again, boss. I'd like to be able to get some sleep."

"It'll take as long as it has to," the Argonian replied, looking Castorius up and down. "Though, I have a feeling this time it will be over quite soon."

Jaree-Ra then walked to the front of the ship to yell and curse at his underlings. They certainly seemed fond of that, these pirate-captains. Castorius was forced into a sitting position on the cold, wet deck, while the man holding the sword pulled a stool under himself right next to him. He gave Castorius a derisive sneer.

At least they had left his limbs untied, for which he was thankful. His skin was still a little chafed around the wrists from the previous round of ropes.

Not wanting to look at the rat-faced pirate looming over him, and not wanting to give the man the satisfaction of seeing his agitated state, Castorius cast his eyes down at the splintery boards between his legs. He breathed deeply and slowly, trying to clear his mind enough to be able to contemplate how he might get out of this situation.

As his mind cleared a bit, though, it only started to look more and more obvious there was no conceivable way out of this. He could spring up and toss himself over the side. More than likely they would be too slow to stop him. But what then? They'd undoubtedly be too lazy to go after him, but surely at least one of them was a competent enough a marksman to skewer him with an arrow while he was busy splashing about in the water like a disabled manatee. Or Jaree-Ra, being the water-savvy Argonian that he was—he would have no trouble coming after him. He'd probably cut to the chase and just slit Castorius' throat. Get it over with.

So that option was clearly off the table.

Not that torture was sounding like that much more of a good time. He'd tell the man anything he wanted to know, of course, but there were a couple problems with that too. First of all, it was the usual dilemma with confession given in too much haste. Those suffered from clear credibility issues. But even if he gave Jaree-Ra some time to start the procedure—a couple punches here, a few cuts there—before spewing his guts, it was his story itself that was the problem. _Yes, the Daedric Prince of Debauchery put me up to it. He wants his pretty flower back._ Who was going to believe _that?_

It hardly needed reiterating how torture was an utterly useless tool of interrogation. More often than not the whole thing only went on because the person doing it got a kick out of it. And to Castorius, Jaree-Ra seemed like he might just fit that bill.

To his utmost displeasure, then, Castorius noticed his legs had started to shake. He told himself it was because of the cold, but could only pretend that for a fraction of a second. He felt the brittle remains of the courage he might have had start to crumble. _Oh, please, please. If you're there . . ._

_Who?_ Who was there to pray to? He'd never believed in the gods, might as well admit that. Who could blame him, though—he'd never seen one. He'd seen one of the supposed opposition, though—now. He'd seen a Daedric Prince, so maybe . . .

_Bah!_ One look at one of those things, and already he was about to loose his life over it! And not likely in a too comfortable way, either. Not suffocating under a big old set of teats _at all!_ And that giant red-and-black bastard was to blame.

_No . . ._ Castorius sighed. Even at this moment, at the parading moment for self-pity, the little insistent voice in his head kept him from lulling himself into the sweet embrace of blamelessness. _Was it not_ I _who decided to come here,_ he though with resignation. _Me and my endless greed. What good is it now? What use will prestige and gold be in . . ._

Something halted his train of though in its tracks. He lifted up his head, frowning. It was like something was tickling at the back of his mind. Like a sound, only . . . not. At least not a physical one. Castorius looked at Jaree-Ra standing there, with his legs wide, pointing around wildly and dealing orders and insults to his men. Something about him just felt odd.

It took a few moments—Castorius examining the Argonian pirate, having nothing out of ordinary jump out at him—before he saw it. The satchel hanging at the pirate's left side, it had a faint but perceptible glow about it—a strange red-tinted, pulsating light, slowly but steadily increasing in brightness. Accompanying the light was something like a low-level hum, more a sense of pressure on the eardrum than an actual sound.

The jewel. Something was happening to it. Yet no one else seemed to take notice.

_This could be important. I should do something!_ Then, before he'd any time to consider his actions, Castorius cupped a hand over his mouth, and yelled, "Jaree-Ra! I want to talk!" It felt like he was yelling against a loud noise for the eerie humming. How was nobody else picking up on it?

The Argonian's head whipped around. His lip curled. "Aw, you're coming clean already?" he said, and started walking towards him. "And I was so looking forward to our little chat."

"There _is_ someone who sent me," Castorius said once the Argonian was close enough for him not to have to yell. The glow was definitely getting brighter, but it still appeared to escape Jaree-Ra's attention.

"Yes?" said the lizard, cocking his head. "I'm all ears."

Castorius put all his energy into a spiteful sneer, trying to ignore the glow and the humming. "Sam Guevenne sends his regards."

The Argonian's bearing tightened up, though he was obviously doing his best not let it show.

Castorius felt encouraged by this, and it gave him some wind. "I see you haven't forgotten about him," he mocked.

Jaree-Ra shrugged it off. "It was just a few days ago. An encounter of no importance."

"To you, maybe," replied Castorius, with all the spite at his command, "but I hear he still managed to make an impression on your _sister_. Am I correct?"

The pirate gave him look loaded with the most chilled hatred held behind a mask of overhanded contempt. He nodded. "True. Deeja should no doubt want to speak with him again." He paused, and dropped the note of his voice. "As would I."

"Well, it's just too bad he sent _me_ , then."

Jaree-Ra's eyes narrowed. "Perhaps you will do."

_Uh oh, wrong move._ Castorius' act faltered. "You have something of his," he said, but it no longer contained the earlier conviction. His voice was starting to crack.

"Oh, _do I_ , now?" Jaree-Ra's brow went up. He pulled a dagger off of his belt. "Well, I always pay my debt."

Castorius swallowed air.

He realized then the ship had started to turn. He squinted towards starboard. Or port-side? Left, anyway. There, at the shore, was a huge opening in the rock wherein the water flowed, large enough to fit a ship in.

This was their hideout, no doubt, and Castorius was running out of time.

The glow in Jaree-Ra's bag was even brighter now, enough so that it should have been clearly visible to all. The hum was really starting to hurt Castorius' ears, but no one else seemed bothered by it.

The Argonian reached down, grabbed Castorius by the throat and easily lifted him to his feet. The dagger was still in his other hand. He pushed Castorius against a mast, revealed his teeth. "So, then. How much are we talking about? I'd hate to be left in debt."

The noise and the brightening light were starting to cross the threshold of tolerable. Some heads were now turning to their direction. So they _could_ see it, then.

_I should play for some time!_ Giving it one more go, Castorius grinned. "You don't know Sam Guevenne, do you?"

Jaree-Ra frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"No," Castorius shook his head, "You don't know him. Not like _I_ do." He gave a tepid laugh of pretend-defiance. "You have no idea who he is; what he is capable of."

"Maybe so," said Jaree-Ra slowly, pressing the dagger against Castorius' throat. "But I've a fairly good idea of what _I_ am capable of."

"Uh, boss," said the pirate next to them.

"Not now!" snapped the Argonian.

"Seriously, Cap," the man insisted, "your satchel . . ." The glow was undeniable to anyone with eyesight intact. The pirate was pointing at it with a fearful look in his eyes. The expression looked out of place under that hard, callous brow.

"What about—" Jaree-Ra's biting words were cut short as he looked down. "Now what the—"

"The jewel," Castorius said, triumphantly. " _He_ gave it to me."

Jaree-Ra reached in, and pulled the stone out. It was blazing so brilliantly it hurt Castorius' eyes to look upon it. The pain was an appropriate accompaniment to the one in his ears.

It didn't seem to disturb the Argonian, however, who stared at the thing with eyes incredulously wide. "What?" he breathed.

The ship was almost at the opening now. All the pirates on the ship were staring towards the ever intensifying red flare. Their expressions were increasingly disturbed. And who could blame them?

"Boss . . . " said the man beside them. "I think you better—"

"Throw it out!" someone else cried.

But Jaree-Ra was mesmerized in place. "What _is_ this?" Even in the face of this deeply disconcerting phenomenon, mainly it was greed Castorius was seeing in the Argonian's expression.

_Now!_ Mostly improvising, Castorius acted. He lurched forward and crashed into the pirate captain. Jaree-Ra went stumbling backwards, the blazing stone flying out of his hands and onto the floor. Around it, people jumped back like it was a piece of molten lava. Seemed like the wise course of action.

Castorius was still on his feet, and the next thing he did was focus on the other pirate close to him. The man's mouth hung open—there was obviously too much going on for him to find the time to react. Castorius used this to his benefit; he pulled back and threw as hard a punch he could muster. It landed square in the middle of the man's face, and Castorius felt the cartridge of the man's nose give in under his fist. The pirate then went sprawling on his back.

Castorius snapped around, prepared for a counter attack by Jaree-Ra. The Argonian, however, was too busy diving after the ever brighter jewel rolling on the floor. He jumped onto the stone, as evidently his right mind had already seen it best to bail out.

That didn't apply to the pirates around him, though. Some of them were trying to call out to their leader, to get him to give up his single-minded quest to keep the stone, to get rid of it. Others, however, seemed to have a better grasp on the reality of the situation, and were jumping off the side of the ship. The ship was right at the door of the cavern now.

It was likely the one smart move to make at this point, so Castorius decided to take the example of the pirates leaving the ship. Continuing with the trend of not considering his moves too closely, he ran at the sideboard, grabbed hold and flung himself over.

The fall was admittedly further than he'd expected. There was an unpleasant lurch in the pit of his stomach. Castorius was just about to cry out when he hit the water. Hard. He landed awkwardly, and mostly on his belly, too.

Damn it, but it hurt!

The wind knocked out of him, it took Castorius a while before he could struggle his way back to the surface. The water was damned cold, just like he'd suspected, but after a while he could hardly feel it. In fact, his whole body had gone largely numb.

The pirate ship was halfway inside the cavern, most of the pirates waterborne around it. There was no sign of Jaree-Ra. The boat was all aglow now, but the ghastly crimson light just kept getting stronger.

Then, finally, the hum that had plagued his ears without respite until then stopped. The light vanished too.

For a moment, it was totally silent. There wasn't even any wind, only the splashing of waves.

_What was—_

A crimson explosion of light forced Castorius' eyes shut. A powerful tremor shook his insides, and he instinctively put his hands over his ears, only to have his head sink under the surface. He drew water into his lungs.

Resurfacing, coughing out the salty water, he did his best not to drown. He was sure there would have been a certain amount of bitter irony in that.

Once he'd gotten over the worst, he was all but stunned to find the ship in one piece. In fact, nothing at all seemed to have changed. The boat stood there, stationary at the mouth of the cavern, half of it inside, and half out.

Then, before anyone could do anything, the mountain gave out a nauseating moan. A large piece of the rock, the top part of the entrance of the cavern, trembled and quaked, and then cracked off. The massive chunk of stone collapsed flat on the ship, and the ship cracked in two right at its middle.

The sound of it was like a hundred beams of wood snapped in unison by giant, godly fingers. The bottom half of the ship was first lifted up and then immediately tossed back down. Then it capsized. Its falling mast landed on a few of the pirates as it hit the water, and the sail buried underneath itself a couple more. Pieces of broken timber and metal were flung all around, and those people left bobbing in the water not taken out by the flying debris were tossed about by the massive waves resulting from impact.

Those people included Castorius. He was carried some feet further towards the sea, and clearly out of anybody's sight. Not that anyone likely had time to think about him anyway at the moment. So, after he'd regained his bearings and managed to come a little more into his senses, Castorius started to swim. He gave it all he got, propelling himself forward as fast as he could, flailing his arms wildly. He was distancing himself from the scene while simultaneously cutting an oblique path towards the shore.

There was another loud cracking sound. A second large chunk of the crag chipped off and came rolling down. The avalanche buried underneath it more of the remaining ship and, presumably, a couple more of the pirates.

Finally Castorius' feet touched the bottom, and he floundered onto the rocky bank. His clothes were soaked and heavy with cold water, and he was already starting to feel the cold—now that the worst of the excitement had passed and his body was slowly regaining its regular state. The right hand he'd punched the pirate with had started to ache something fierce. He looked back towards the commotion, but couldn't pick out too many details from the darkness and the mist. The pirate ship was still cut in half, mostly buried under stone. That's all he was sure of. All that he needed to know.

He took off running.

As he was clumsily huddling along towards civilization in his soaked-through clothes, he thought passingly about what might have possibly happened to Jaree-Ra, and about how the incident here might possibly affect their other business. He found those thoughts so disconcerting that he found it best to put the matter out of his mind.

For now.

 


	21. A Huntsman of Hearts

After the places he'd been since he last left the Stormcloak camp, the glowers greeting him on the faces of the ragged and dirty northerners huddled around their fires felt like the warmest of welcomes. It was like returning home.

_Your glares aren't going to hurt me,_ Castorius thought, _so long as you keep those blades in their scabbards._

He marched straight towards the tent containing his Imperial attire, not giving so much as the time of day to the folks whose lips so seemed to curl at his presence. What had he ever done to any of them, besides work for the wrong boss? Supposedly, at least.

"You," muttered one man upon seeing him approach.

Castorius gave the fellow the friendliest smile he could accomplish, pointing a finger at him. "And _you!_ " he said chipper, before diving inside the tent.

The chunky Stormcloak, Hans, sat at the back, chewing on some desiccated piece of meat. Castorius thought the man's figure must have suffered badly in these austere conditions. He gave the man the most desultory wave of greeting, met with even less a response.

He looked around. "Where's my stuff?"

Hans simply stared at him a minute, his jowls working. It was as if he was trying to look dismissive but just came across as somewhat dull-minded. Finally he gave an infinitesimal nod towards a chest sitting in the corner. Castorius went to get out his outfit, which had been stuffed away inside the crate like some dirty secret. While he was getting dressed, Hans kept shooting distasteful scowls at him. Castorius paid no mind.

It felt disconcertingly pleasant once again wearing the outfit he'd always treated with such displeasure. He couldn't help feeling a bit like a slave who'd gotten so used to his master he felt reluctant once he was actually presented with a chance of going free . . .

However you looked at it, though, it was certainly a relief changing into a more respectable outfit after being once again forced to wear the humiliating tavern clothes all the way here. Thankfully they'd at least still been waiting for him at the guard tower in front of Solitude when he'd slogged in like a soaked dog in search of them. By that point he'd been starting to get so freezing cold he though he might just drop dead on his feet.

And now, as he'd managed to escape at least a very likely death at the hands of a more-than-likely sadistic lunatic, and another one at the hands of unrelenting natural forces, he was feeling more alive than ever. And for Janus Castorius, that usually meant one thing.

He gave the unhappy-looking Stormcloak slumping on his sizable backside an assertive look, having gained confidence from changing into his immaculate military outfit. "Hey, Hans!" he said, "Another thing. Where's Kirsten?"

The thought of the sullen woman was an inexplainable turn-on right now. What he'd taken as discouragement last time around, well, it felt like nothing but challenge now. Castorius could aver death, he could blow up a ship full of pirates—he could sure as Oblivion turn the head of some uppity girl playing at a revolutionary.

The look on Hans' face was, if possible, even more disgusted than before. "What do you want with her?"

Castorius shrugged. "Just talk." _Ha ha ha—yeah right!_

"Well, you're out of luck, friend," said Hans. "She's off hunting?"

"Hunting? Hunting for what?"

"What do you think? For the love and affection of some arrogant Imperial coward, of course!"

Castorius felt a flare on his cheeks. "I'm not a coward!"

Hans seemed less than impressed by the outburst. "No, of course you're not."

Castorius' patience was wearing thin. "Are you going to tell me where she went, or are you and I going to have a problem?" He was himself a bit surprised of this sudden rise of machismo. He pretty much felt like hitting this fellow right now, despite his right hand still being sore from the last punch he'd thrown. Still, it was a good feeling.

Hans blinked, actually appearing taken aback by the challenge presented.

_Yeah,_ Castorius though, w _ho's the coward now?_ "Well?" he pressed with a raised voice. He'd even balled his hand into a fist.

"They'd spotted some bear or something about the premises of the camp," replied the Stormcloak with surly resignation. "So she went to check it out."

"What, alone?"

Hans frowned. "You think she's some helpless laundrywoman, do you?" He shook his head. "You Imperials are all the same."

"Just tell me where she went!"

"Towards west, that's where the thing was last spotted."

"Alright," said Castorius. He started to leave.

"She's not interested, you know," Hans said, stopping Castorius in his tracks. "She's way too good for you."

Castorius turned, frowning at the man. "What, are you in love with her or something?" It was more than likely, as Hans seemed precisely the type to harbor hopeless romances for women out of his pudgy little league.

But the Stormcloak just replied with a scornful scuff. "I'm not a puffed-up blowhard like you. Even if I didn't look upon her as just a sister to the cause, I'd still know my station, and when someone is unreachable for me."

At least the man was honest. Still, Castorius felt like harassing him a bit more. "She's _royalty_ now, or what?" he said, giving a laugh that even in his own ears sounded overly offhand.

Hans' brows went up. "You don't know?"

"Know what?" Castorius asked with a frown.

Hans laughed. "Of course, how could I expect you to. You don't know _anything_."

"I know I'm this close to kicking your behind. Speak!"

Hans gave him a pitying look. "Kirsten is Ulfric's niece."

_Oh._ Castorius blinked. "Well, you got me there. I did not know that."

"Yes, well, now you do. And since she's the closest living relative Ulfric has, she'll be a more than likely heir to the throne. That is, _when_ Ulfric ascends to his rightful place as the High King of independent Skyrim."

Castorius grunted. "You know, for someone who's purportedly not an arrogant blowhard, you sure make bold assumptions."

There was a good measure of pride in the Stormcloak's eyes as he regarded Castorius, his chin uplifted. "And for a purported turncoat, you sure seem to lack faith in your new cause."

_Oh, right._ Castorius felt a little stab. He'd nearly forgotten he was still supposed to pretend at having joined the doomed cause of this insufferable dolt. How much of his true character had he let show?

At that, he decided to retreat. "You worry about your own faith, now," he said lamely, and rushed out of the tent before Hans had a chance to say anything more. There were more pressing issues to think about anyway.

He started walking out of the Stormcloak camp, heading West. Hans had better not have been leading him on.

_An heir to the throne, eh?_ It was too obvious a detail to pass over as if nothing at all. The second Castorius thought it, though, his minded started to gallop ahead of itself. _Wouldn't mind me some of that, no. Janus Castorius, the husband of—_

He all but had to slap himself to keep such a presumptuous idea from fully forming. Last time he'd met the woman, the closest to intimate he'd gotten with her was a good slap in the face. As confident as he was now feeling about his chances of softening her up enough to bed her, it was still perhaps a touch too early to start devising a guest list for the wedding.

He did his best to focus on the present moment. It had been snowing last night, and the weather had gotten a bit colder. Fresh snow crunched under his boots, and the wind was once again chilling his bare legs. He'd have to suggest they add some kind of leg wear to the outfit the next time he spoke with someone in charge of the paraphernalia. _That is,_ if _I ever speak with any of them again._

This was no place for such grim thoughts! Castorius took a deep breath and let it flow out through his mouth. It was a new day, and that meant a new chance. No matter how gloomy he'd felt about the situation he'd been pulled into, there was always the opportunity to take matters into his own hands, to steer his destiny in the direction he best saw fit. What had that obnoxious Captain Malaney said again? The limits of our worlds are only as narrow as the limits of our minds? Maybe there was something about the man, after all, not entirely rotten. He just might have been on to something!

Castorius smiled. He'd find Kirsten, show her how mistaken her earlier, unfavorable view of him had been. He'd show her that Janus Castorius charm—the one that had the power to sweep any woman off her feet—and he'd prove for once and for all that—

He froze. Was that the sound of someone screaming? He cocked his ear, but for a second, heard nothing but the wind whizzing in the trees. And there is was again. Definitely somebody screaming.

_Kirsten!_

Castorius took off running towards the direction of the sound. Another scream. This time it was accompanied by something else. A low growl.

The bear!

The sounds were getting closer, and he picked up his pace. He nearly surprised himself by the nimble manner in which he oriented himself in the midst of rocks and tree roots, his feet finding a solid place to land at each step. The idea of Kirsten being devoured by the beast served as a good incentive.

Then, after what felt like ages of running, he arrived at the scene. There was Kirsten, dressed in her full Stormcloak armor, standing at the edge of a cliff. In her right hand, she had a shield lifted up protectively in front of her face, and the sword in her other hand was pulled back with the tip pointed forwards at her adversary.

Castorius' jaw dropped. Not on account of seeing the woman, but rather the thing she was up against. It was in fact no bear all, but a giant, ugly animal on two legs, covered in a coat of white fur, and with a pair of massively muscular arms hanging almost all the way down to its feet. A hefty simian head stood on wide shoulders, a mouth full of sharp teeth hanging open and a feverish look in two of its eyes—the third eye sitting largely expressionless between its brows.

A frost troll. Castorius had so far managed to avoid seeing one of them in person. In that regard, apparently, his luck had changed.

Kirsten did not look to have noticed his arrival, and he could scarcely blame her for it. She was yelling something at the creature that he could not make sense of. Either it was some language he'd never heard before—maybe some ancient Nordic tongue revived by the Stormcloaks—or she was simply too in the grips of horror to make any intelligible words anymore. Castorius thought it might have been the latter option, for he himself felt abundant fear even from this distance—even when he himself had not been targeted by this horrible beast.

He cursed inside. And they'd let her come here by herself!

The creature then made a lurch at Kirsten. It threw its massive arms at her, and she caught the blow with her shield. She was pushed backwards a step from the undoubtedly enormous power behind the strike, and made a pained grunt.

The troll took a step back itself. It cocked its head backwards and spread its arms, then gave a gut-wrenching scream. Castorius felt his legs start to wobble. _Not now!_

The beast then looked to prepare for another charge, and Castorius felt something surge from the pit of his stomach. Surprisingly, it was not horror. It was anger. He would not stand idly by and watch this woman be torn apart by this disgusting beast! He would do . . . something.

So, just as the frost troll took a step towards Kirsten, Castorius did what he had gotten into a habit of doing these past few days, and went with his gut. This time it prompted him to run.

And not towards safety, either. No, he found himself charging straight at Kirsten and the monster. A passing inquiry went through his head, wondering what it might possible he'd do once he'd reached them, but this was no time for considering such details.

He was smart enough not to yell as he charged. He'd still not been noticed, which was exactly the way he wanted it. He needed his attack to be a surprise. With his long legs, it did not take him too long to reach his destination. He prepared himself, clenched up each muscle in his body and slammed against . . .

Kirsten.

The woman had had just about enough time to catch a glimpse of Castorius storming at her. A quick succession of different emotions quickly flashed on her face—first surprise, then confusion, and then shock—and she opened her mouth as if to say something, but by then it was too late, and his bulk hitting her sent her backwards. She hit the ground right at the edge where the hill sloped downwards, rolled off her shoulder, and was sent rolling down the hill.

At least it wasn't a steep fall, Castorius reflected, if a little late at that.

He just about had kept himself from losing his footing as well. He steadied himself as he watched Kirsten skidding down the hill, and hoped she hadn't hurt herself—and that she could stop her fall before she did.

Castorius then thought there might have been something else—

A hateful roar beside him snapped him out of his stupor. The frost troll had quickly recovered from the disappointment caused by the loss of its prize, look as it did that a fresh one had immediately taken its place. It rejoiced in this convenient happenstance by letting out another blood-chilling bellow. The sound was a bit as if a mountain were being dragged out of its place—that is, if the mountain happened to be very upset by this sudden act of relocation.

"Uh," Castorius said to the beast. His blood was pumping in his ears with such intensity, he could hear nearly nothing else. Somewhere in the distance was the faint hiss of his own ragged breathing. Time slowed down, and the monster kept blurring in and out of focus in front of his eyes. A tiny voice somewhere in his head was trying to reach out to him. What did it want?

_Do something!_

Castorius shook his head. Of course!

Out of the blue, a powerful jolt of energy surged through his body. The fear subsided, and all of a sudden the beast in front of him looked half as frightening as it just had a second ago. That was not to say it still wasn't a very disconcerting sight. But at least now Castorius could feel his limbs being free to move again, and not crippled by sheer terror.

The frost troll roared again. But this time Castorius roared back. And, for a second, it was almost as if the creature frowned at this unexpected response. It certainly looked surprised.

_Now!_ Castorius reached for the scabbard at his side, swiftly unbuckled it. His fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword, and he brought the blade out in one smooth sweeping motion.

Maybe it was about time the thing saw some real action for once!

The beast looked at the blade with its bloodshot eyes, and Castorius thought he saw something like fear in them. Encouraged, he jabbed the blade towards the monster's massive head, and let out a confrontational exclamation.

_That's right! Next time you'll think twice before setting yourself up against—_

A flash of something not even anger proper—rather irritation, like the kind an elephant might express over a pesky little fly—visited the creature's face. It then took a quick step forward, tossed its tree-trunk of a left arm, and struck at Castorius' blade right above the crossguard. The impact was as brutal as it was sudden; a shock went down his arm and all the way up to his shoulder. The fingers loosened their grip on the hilt, and the weapon went flying off the cliff, crashing downwards like a weighted kite.

Suddenly unarmed—in more ways than one, since his right arm had gone all the way numb—Castorius found the tables turned on him in a manner most unwelcome. The frost troll's disposition was every bit as belligerent as before, and by blessing of nature, its own weapons—the gods-awfully overlong arms ending in a set of sharp claws, and the full set of sharp, yellow teeth which culminated in the very poignant looking pair of canines the length of Castorius' pinkies—were quite an unalienable part of its make-up.

"Uh," Castorius said.

The beast roared.

Then it charged.

It was a question of mere fractions of a second Castorius' head didn't get knocked off its pedestal, as the creature threw those sure-to-be-deadly black claws straight at it. He just about managed to throw himself backwards and out of the way—acting with not a hint of reason or self-awareness.

But, as it went, the omission of those two aspects of his being had its obvious drawback. While his foremost motivation was quite logically to avert the fatal blow of that freakishly thick and long arm, what would follow was left entirely without consideration.

He yelped out in agony as he landed back-first straight on a boulder lying right in his way. It took him on the right shoulder, and he rolled to his left, ending up on his stomach in the half-frozen muck. Wind half knocked out of him and the pain now radiating back from his shoulder towards the still benumbed fingers, it took him a second to find his bearings again.

The sudden sharp pain in his left calf helped to clear his mind right up.

Castorius screamed, snapping his head back. The frost troll had dug its claws into the back of his leg, and was holding on tight. With no cloth to hold them back, the sharp nails were biting right into his skin. The pain was sharp and hot, and he felt a wave of nausea seeing blood start to seep onto the dirty snow.

The creature bent down, opening wide its mouth lined with razor-sharp dentures. Castorius' leg must have looked like a juicy snack, for sure. He felt a panic, but couldn't pull his leg free from the frost troll's iron grip, and the claws sunk into his flesh hurt something fierce as he moved it.

So he used his free leg and aimed as hard a kick as he could at the monstrous head. The heel of his boot took the frost troll on the cheekbone, and the creature gave an annoyed shrug of its head. He took another shot, this one hitting the beast's nose. Another irked shake, but the grip still held. More and more blood was being relocated from his veins onto the ground.

Winding his leg as far back as he could, and putting all the force of his prone form into the motion, Castorius gave it one more kick—this time directed at the one eye sitting at the middle of the furrowed forehead. It was a clear hit, and upon impact the frost troll let out a roar. This time it was not out of anger, but clearly out of pain.

The animal pulled back, releasing his leg. Even the pulling out of those nails hurt like nothing he remembered experiencing before.

Taking the chance he was given, he clumsily scampered onto his feet. His wounded leg hurt, and since he couldn't put his full weight on it, he had to drag it behind somewhat. In addition, his right arm had still not regained its full sensation.

But he was alive and in one piece. For now.

The frost troll was still clearly intent on remedying that situation. It had quickly recovered from the assault directed at its extraneous ocular, and based on its fervent grunting, obviously harbored some resentment.

On the other hand, the beast clearly bore a permanent grudge for anything still living and not at its immediate culinary disposal.

Castorius, in any case, was clearly still on the menu. As he'd barely gotten back onto his feet, the beast lurched after him. And while the creature was much larger than any predator had any right to be, it was also very fast. Castorius, unfortunately, was neither of those things. The frost troll was on him within a blink. It struck him hard in the back, and he was sent toppling back onto his face. At least he had just enough time to get his hands out to cut the fall, but still scraped his cheek hard on the gravel underneath the light coat of snow. He tasted blood. He thought he must have bitten the tip of his tongue.

He rolled to the left just before the frost troll's brawny leg crushed him underneath it. He didn't wait around for another try, but sprang to his feet as nimbly as possible, which was not very. He heard a whooshing sound as the beast's giant paw whipped behind his back, missing only by a hair's breadth. He stumbled, nearly loosing his footing, and just managed to stay on his feet by grabbing a hold of a the sturdy trunk of an old spruce.

He heard the frost troll's heavy steps as it charged at him, and flung himself behind the tree. On the other side, there was the sound of the creature crashing into the spruce, its claws splintering bark. Castorius pulled back a bit, staying behind the trunk. The frost troll appeared from the left side of it, trying to reach him with its long arm. Castorius strafed to his right while still keeping the tree between the monster and himself.

They circled around it a few times, then, the troll trying time and time again to scratch at him. But even with his awkward hobble, Castorius proved to be just fast enough to evade the attempts.

Then, quite unexpectedly, as he had gotten a steady rhythm going—trying to figure out how to break free from the limbo of circling the tree like a child playing tag—the frost troll took him off guard by changing directions. He almost ran straight into the monster's embrace, so completely unprepared was he for this sudden show of intelligence on the part of this humongous freak of nature.

There was almost a gleeful quality to the snarl on the creature's face, as if it had not missed the cleverness of this sudden move.

Castorius just barely dodged the troll's deathly hug, but, as he started to make a break for it, was hit in the rear by the creature's backhand. He didn't lose his balance right away, but instead plodded forwards with a series of long and uncoordinated strides, each one but an attempt to keep himself from falling flat onto his face again.

Then, finally, he ran out of those redeeming steps, lost the order of his feet, and the solid earth raced to greet him once more. Sparks of light flashed in his eyes as he hit the ground.

Once down, he flopped onto his back, feeling the last fight drain out of him. His body felt to weigh a ton, his entire right arm from shoulder to fingertips was throbbing with a dull ache, and the burning sensation in his bleeding leg was intensifying with every heartbeat. _Should it not be getting numb by now?_

The beast was walking toward him unhurriedly now, like it also knew what Castorius knew. There would be no more fight left. What would follow now would be strictly a formality—the clinking of the glass and the ill-prepared desultory speech of washed-out platitudes before the food could finally be served. The raw animal hunger behind the brittle facade of civilization.

Well, perhaps there were no facades where this beast was considered. There was something refreshing about such brutal honesty.

_Me, die an honest death?_ he thought with sour amusement. _There's just got to be an irony there!_

The frost troll sauntered on with the sure gracefulness of a certain death, its raspy breath coming slow and heavy like from bellows of Oblivion. A low, steady growl from its throat accompanied the hoarse wheeze.

Castorius closed his eyes.

_No!_ He opened them right back up. If he was going to die, he'd at least face it unblinking.

The beast loomed above him, a hulk of white shag and snarl blotting the sun, its shadowed bulk of a head crowned with a spiky halo, like some particularly hideous angel of death.

_This is it. Do your worst._ Castoriuswas quite baffled by the lack of fear in him. Or would have been, had he cared anymore. Everything felt distant; even the previously so prevalent pain in his arm and leg were nothing more but ambiguous little throbs in the back of his mind. A second time within the space of just a few days that he felt he might die within seconds; maybe he was getting better at it. He was an old hand by now, at being so close to the final frontier.

Though the faint sense of unreality about it he'd felt the last time was entirely absent now. In its place was a certain crushing certainty.

Yet all the pain and fear were gone, too. Perhaps dying—actually dying—was really less painful than living was.

He all but scoffed out loud at the pathetic sentiment. Was that the truth of him, in the end?

Luckily, though, it seemed as if all such inconvenient questions would soon be rendered void.

The hideous thing bent down towards him, drool glistening in its fangs. Castorius' eyes were open. _Come on, then!_

A thundering bellow erupted out of the creature's gaping maw, and Castorius' eyes squeezed shut tight. He felt a smelly wad of spittle splash on his face. He thought with half a mind there'd been an odd high-pitched side note to the roar.

The things one noticed, as it was all about to end.

And he waited.

But nothing happened.

It might have been a fraction of a second or a stretch of several hours, but all Castorius knew was how very silent everything was.

Had it happened already?

When he finally managed to crack open an eye, he was stunned to find himself once more face to face with the sharp end of a blade. At the other end, this time around, was the head of the frost troll, mouth still hanging belligerently open, saliva dripping off the fangs. The blade jutted out from between the gaping jaws, stained red. A trickle of blood ran down the groove at the middle of the flat side, falling off the tip and drip-drip-dripping on Castorius' breastplate.

He blinked, trying to take it in. The animal's eyes stared at him with intercepted hatred from beyond.

"Could you possibly," came the feminine voice from behind the animal's dead grimace, "get out of thefucking way!?"

"Uh?" Castorius said. He peered past the frost troll, saw Kirsten standing there, holding on to the hilt off the sword stuck in the dead beast's skull. She looked a little strained from holding the creature up.

Castorius came to, and rolled out from underneath.

Once he was clear, Kirsten let the frost troll slump onto the ground. She pressed her boot against the creature's neck, and pulled out her sword. She wiped the gore off into the dead animal's fur, and stuck the blade back in its sheathe.

Castorius ran his hand over his face, and it also came back red. Not spittle, after all.

Kirsten then turned to him. She was all quiet, just stared at him. It was not a happy stare. Her clothes were covered with snow and dirt, and there were scrapes on her face and on the backs of her hands.

She walked beside Castorius as he scampered back to his feet.

"Uh," he said.

Kirsten still said nothing, just stood in front of him, staring, the look in her blue her eyes getting harder and harder, the muscles in her face all tightened up. Her overall coloring was gravitating towards bright crimson.

Probably this would be a good time to say a little something more. "Sorry—"

He was cut short by the powerful open-handed smack Kirsten dealt him. She put all her weight behind it, too. And it stung. A lot. His head whipped to the side, and he felt something crack in his neck.

_Okay, probably I had that one coming._ Castorius faced the woman anew; she wasn't looking any less mad. "I was only trying to help," he tried.

Backhand this time, and his head whipped the other way. It hurt even worse, and he though a tooth might have been knocked loose. He tasted blood, and his ears rang.

Before there were any more chances for him to try and explain himself, Kirsten was all over him. She grabbed him by the collar and violently pushed him backwards.

Castorius' back slammed against a tree, and what little wind there was left in him was knocked right out. Kirsten pressed him against the tree, her eyes aflame with rage.

He was fumbling for words, any words, but none were available.

Kirsten nailed him with her intense stare. "You _are_ a fool!" she hissed, spraying him with spit.

At that moment, even if he had managed to get a word out of his mouth, he was not feeling inclined to argue. As Kirsten stared at him with those eyes like burning ice, he could not bring himself to look away—despite really, _really_ wanting to.

Then, something in the woman altered. Her face twitching with anger shifted a little, and if it didn't exactly soften, a different, more conflicted, emotion found room on it. She shook her head. " _And_ a moron."

Castorius blinked.

Kirsten breathed long through her nose, eyes still on his. "But _damn it_ if you ain't a cute one!"

_Huh?_

The Nord woman then gave him a kiss most aggressive. Castorius' bruised lip hurt, but despite the pain he did nothing to resist. He answered to the assault to the best of his ability

Feeling himself immediately start to harden up, he realized his body had fully recovered from its state of numbness. In the midst of all the sensation, though, the pain was also as present as ever.

But, at the moment, he did not care in the least.

_I'll take what I can get!_ he thought.

And so he did.

And it was good.


	22. Worlds Apart

"Get out of my sight, before _I_ plunge something in _you_!"

Castorius had been seen out with more pleasant parting words, but on the other hand, he'd gotten worse ones too in his time. His face was a bit tender where the woman had struck him. It hadn't been one of the blows she'd dealt him before their "making up" or even those she'd dealt _during_ , for the healing potion he'd ingested afterwards had taken care of those, but from the latest one, the one she'd planted on his cheek as he'd requested a "kiss for good luck". Clearly the concept had an altogether different significance where she came from.

It mattered less, however, for despite his decline from a sub-par spy to a poor-quality dinner for one having looked just about inevitable, no one could deny he'd come out on top at the end. In a manner of speaking.

So in a good mood he certainly was.

"Good day!" he bid a haggard gentleman stumbling out of the Inn, and wasn't sure whether the man's slurred reply was "indeed" or "eat shit".

Castorius shrugged, and pushed open the swinging door.

Nightgate Inn looked every bit the same as all the rest of them. One was always struck with a certain sense of déjà-vu in these places, the setup, the atmosphere, the smell, even the clientele being pretty much always exactly the same. Castorius nearly felt the red of shame rise on his cheeks from the memory of the night before at Windpeak Inn. He had to remind himself that there were a few mountains between that place and this. Nobody here would have seen him. Most likely. And, it being just a little bit after noon, the place was mostly empty anyway.

He marched to the counter behind which a burly, bearded Nord stood with his arms crossed. The man regarded Castorius with his one good eye, the one which did not have a nasty vertical scar running under it. The eye had the sort of wariness about it as if it was constantly on the lookout for someone trying to get it too.

The man gave Castorius the slightest of nods. He was bald, and wore a stained, once-white shirt below his take-no-nonsense expression.

"Good day!" Castorius said, not exactly holding his breath for any friendlier reply than the one he now suspected having gotten from the earlier man.

"And a good day to you, sir," the man replied, "how may I help you?"

The man's voice was warm like the Sun's Height afternoon sun in your face; the low, raspy purr of it like the crackling of a fireplace on a windy Frostfall night.

Castorius, caught unprepared, tried to find a position to take in this unexpected dose of bonhomie. "Uh, I'm, er, looking for somebody."

"Ah," the man said, gave a superfluous gesture at the room. "Anyone here satisfy your tastes?"

Upon a closer look, it became obvious the place was actually completely empty. That was, if one didn't take into account the older-than-heavens man fast asleep at the back. Castorius did not.

"Um," he said, "no. Someone else. A man by the name of Sang—Sam. Sam Guevenne?"

Unless the one in the back was another one of his disguises. No, but he'd said something about not being able to fool the same person with different faces. Who knows, he may have even been telling the truth.

"Ah," the man said again, "he said you'd come." He nodded contently.

"And . . ." said Castorius after an uncomfortable silence, "he would be . . . where?"

"Ah," said the man, like each time he repeated it was an attempt to hit a lower, more enticingly wise note, "he's here." Thankfully, instead of another pause, he tossed his head back. There was set of steps leading down behind him. "He's downstairs, waiting for you."

"Thank you," Castorius said, and started to circle around the counter.

"Funny fellow, that one," said the man, "kind of odd."

"Yeah," Castorius said, smiling indulgently, and walked on.

The man would not be content with simply letting him go. "But we like him here. A loyal customer, tips well. Brings people with him, too."

"Uh huh." Castorius took the first steps down. _Shut up, now._

"Oh, one more thing!"

Castorius stopped, and sighed. He flashed one more pained smile at the man.

"He told me to tell you, what was it? Oh, yeah: 'just courageously step into the void.' Yeah, that's it."

Castorius held a pause, in case the man had more to say. "That all?"

The Innkeeper nodded, and gave a little laugh. "Like I said: a funny fellow, that one."

_Indeed._

The cellar was dim, many of the lights in the goat horn wall sconces blown out. It looked to have been quite a while since anyone last cleaned up, cobwebs hanging off the pillars and rafters, the cracks of the floor tiles powdered with dust. The space itself was larger than the Inn upstairs, only much more crammed, and with the ceiling hanging lower. Barrels, wine tanks, hay bales, and piles of crates were scattered amid the myriad wooden pillars.

But there was no sign of Sam. Castorius blinked at the shadows for a few heartbeats, listening. What was that odd faint noise he was hearing? A sort of squeak or moan, continuing in a steady rhythm. A hive of skeevers, maybe? Castorius felt his skin crawl at the prospect.

He took a tentative step further into the room. "Sam?" he called cautiously.

No reply, and no change in the sound either. It if had been skeevers, surely they would have been stirred by the sound of his voice.

He slowly walked further. The space opened up further to the left, to where the strange sound was coming from. There was an unobstructed doorway there, leading to a separate room.

As Castorius approached, it became evident what was causing the noise.

He stopped in his tracks, jaw dropping. In the room was a double bed, and on it were two people engaged in a most fervent form of copulation. A man lay on his back, holding on to the headboard, while a woman with the palest skin Castorius had ever seen rocked back and forth with a nearly violent motion. He head was tilted backwards, her eyes closed on her face twisted into a grimace of ecstasy. Her long black hair matted with dirt and sweat hung all the way down to the bedding. A steady moan escaped her throat, playing together in perfect harmony with the squeak of the bed.

The man under her also had his eyes closed, and a content smile on his lips. His muscular, hairy chest was arched faintly, dabbled with sweat.

Castorius simply stared. He wasn't particularly shocked by the sight, let alone aroused. If anything, he was surprised by this unexpected display of carnal passion. A faint voice in his head told him he should probably not be there.

That very sound realization did not, however, have time to prompt a proper corresponding action, before the woman's eyes flew open. She wrinkled her brow.

Castorius tensed in anticipation of her scream, but to his surprise it didn't come. The woman merely frowned at him, slowing her rocking somewhat, but still not altogether seizing it.

"Who are you?" she asked, sounding more curious than angry.

"Uh," Castorius replied.

The man had also opened his eyes, and was in turn frowning. He peered past the still swaying woman. "See anything you like?" His voice was a bit more irked, but it was still nothing like full-blown outrage.

"Um, um, sorry," Castorius muttered. "I didn't mean to . . . uh, I'll just be going now." He started backing up. "Sorry."

"By all means!" the man called behind him once his back was turned. The woman had started to moan again.

A little shaken, Castorius walked further toward the back of the cellar. _What's going on here?_ He honestly would not have been surprised to find Sam in that bed, but it had obviously not been him. So where was the man? Or the demon, whatever he was.

There were no other rooms, just the clutter all over. Castorius walked on all the way to the back, but there was no one there. "Sam?" he called again. "Uh, _Sanguine_?"

Nothing, just the groaning and creaking in the background.

Castorius stood there for a few seconds, nonplussed. He shook his head, and was just about to turn on his heel when something caught his peripheral vision. He turned, and despite himself, dropped his jaw anew.

In the right back corner, behind a large wine tank, a massive orb of light had appeared from nowhere. A white light sprang outwards from its center, which itself was of the darkest of dark—less like a color, and more like the absolute lack of any.

As Castorius' eyes were irresistibly drawn into that center, he was filled with an odd sensation. As if, staring into that complete absence of qualities, he himself was drained of all of his.

"Courageously step into the void, huh?" he mumbled.

He tore his eyes off the apparition and looked at the ground, giving his head a clarifying shake. When he looked back, the thing was just the same, but the odd feeling was starting to subside.

He shrugged. _Why not._

Castorius took a deep breath, and walked right into the center of the void.

Every hair on his body pricked up, and a powerful but brief sensation like a shock wave ran though him. He closed his eyes, feeling a tide of nausea. _Perhaps this was a bad idea, after all . . ._

When he opened his eyes again, everything had changed. It was like he was outdoors again, but this clearly wasn't the Pale, as there was no snow in sight, and the sky was of an unnatural dark blue color. A thick gauze of mist hung in the air all around him, carrying a strange musky odor Castorius could not remember ever smelling before. There was an unmistakable alien quality to the surroundings, a sense of complete unreality, like being caught in someone else's dream.

Right in front of him purled fast flowing rapids, over which ran a narrow stone bridge. Across the bridge, Castorius saw some lamps hanging in the mist, and between them he could decipher a walkway. He started walking across.

After the rapids, the walkway curved to the right, leading to another, shorter bridge. Crossing that one, Castorius started to hear some noise in the near distance. It was unmistakably people this time, animated murmuring pierced by bursts of raucous laughter. Sounded like a whole crowd of them. In the midst of the voices, there was the clinking of dishes. Sounded exactly like a banquet in progress.

Immediately Castorius started to feel hungry.

He followed the path towards the sounds, and soon arrived at the clearing where they were coming from. There was a a long trestle table there, set in the middle of some birch trees. Ropes had been rigged between the trunks, and the lanterns hanging from them made for a peculiar lighting in the middle of the eerie blue glow that so dominated the strange surroundings. Somewhere around ten people of different races and both sexes sat around the table, eating, drinking and making loud conversation. They didn't seem to notice Castorius drawing near.

He stopped a couple paces away, and still no one showed any sign of seeing him there. They were apparently too busy stuffing their faces with the assorted delicacies the table was laden with. Grease glistened at corners of the mouths which couldn't find the time to finish chewing before it was time to take a drink from one of the myriad goblets and bottles lying around. That, or to engage in spirited conversation with either somebody sitting at the other side, or a person at the opposite side of the table, or—by the looks of it—not with anyone in particular.

And although not in the most liberal recess of his mind could Castorius find it in him to call it in any respect an appetizing sight, he couldn't help feeling an odd hunger. And what was even stranger, he could have even gone for a drink just then.

"Cas! You made it!" A familiar voice from his right gave him a tiny jump.

There by the side was Sanguine, lounging on a maroon plush couch. Castorius could have sworn he hadn't been there just a second ago.

The daedra prince looked just the same as he had before—a giant black-and-red monster with horns and a wide grin on his lips. On both sides of him, there were two other creatures nearly identical to him. Nearly, that was, except for the fact that they were female. Sanguine had his arms draped over their shoulders, and they themselves were looking cozy in his embrace, hands resting on his muscular upper body.

The creatures were eyeing Castorius with lazy feline curiosity in their obsidian eyes, as if just to offer a contrast to the animated sparkle in Sanguine's.

"So glad to see you!" reveled Sanguine, throwing his hands wide.

"Uh," Castorius said. _Wish I could parallel that claim._

"So—how'd it go? Did you deliver Jaree-Ra my little gift?"

_A gift?_ "I gave him the jewel, if that's what you mean."

"And . . .?" Sanguine leaned forward, cocking his head in anticipation.

"It, uh, exploded," said Castorius. "Jaree-Ra's ship got half-buried under a hunk of collapsing rock."

"Ha- _ha_!" The Daedric Prince let out a barking laugh, slamming his giant hands together. "Better than I thought!" He hooted with laughter.

Castorius had no reply. He just stared at the cackling demon doubling over on the couch.

"Hey, wait up," Sanguine said abruptly, seizing his celebrations. "You said _half_ -buried. What happened to the other half?"

"What does it matter? The ship was just about to enter their hideout was when the thing went off. Could barely escape the ship myself."

Sanguine raised a brow. "You? What were _you_ doing on it?"

"Never mind that," Castorius muttered.

"Oh well," said Sanguine, lounging back beside his demonic escorts. "It was still a good prank, don't you think? Showed him to hustle me, huh."

Castorius frowned. "Prank? You call that a prank?"

"Sure. Why not?" Sanguine shrugged.

"Killing someone hardly qualifies for a prank!"

"He died? I assure you it wasn't purely my intention."

" _Oh?_ " Castorius was feeling inexplicably outraged by the monster's nonchalance, but couldn't find words to express it.

Why was he even feeling the inclination to argue against the murder of someone who was himself a murderer?

"Well, did he?" Sanguine demanded.

"Actually," replied Castorius, "I don't really know. There was a whole lot of commotion."

"Well, then. I suspect that weasel found out a way out of it. Of course, I hadn't meant the thing to go off until they'd gotten inside the grotto. So I suppose you could say according to my original plan, he likely _would_ have died." He shrugged his hefty shoulders. "Probably better this way, actually. After all, what's the point of a prank if no one's alive to remember it? Am I right?"

"So you _did_ know about his hideout? You tricked me!"

Sanguine laughed. "A little maybe. It was fun, though, wasn't it?"

"I wouldn't actually go and say that." Castorius felt his anger somewhat frozen inside him. "So there never was any rose, was there?"

"Oh, there is. That much is true. And I did lose it; I just, well, rigged the truth about it just a bit."

_What's the use?_ Castorius rubbed his the bridge of his nose, suddenly depleted of all desire to continue arguing. In addition, his head had started to throb.

"Either way," said the Daedric Prince, clearly oblivious to any discomfort on the part of his guest, "you certainly came through. You've well deserved your reward."

He looked thoughtful for a while, glancing around with a frown. His expression cleared then. "Hey, how about a little roll in the hay with these two?" He gestured at the "ladies" around him.

Castorius regarded the unnatural pair. They replied to his look with coy, suggestive smiles on their lips. Only the briefest flicker of curiosity sparkled within him before he squashed it down. "Um, I'm going to have to pass on that."

"You sure? They're quite the _demons_ in the sack, you know. Real fierce!" Sanguine's grin was wider than ever.

Castorius gave the things one more look. It was almost like they were pouting, but then he could have just imagined it.

"Yeah, I don't doubt that," he said. "It's still a no, though."

Sanguine shrugged. "Suit yourself. Your loss." He stood up, stretched his long arms. "So, how do you like the place?"

"The place?" replied Castorius, looking around. "Where are we, anyway?"

Sanguine looked a bit surprised, as if Castorius should have somehow known. "Why, it's Misty Grove, one of my planes. Obviously."

Obviously.

"We're in _Oblivion_?" the realization was not a comfortable one.

"Well, of course," Sanguine replied. "Where else? What, you've never been?"

"Uh, no," Castorius said. "No, I've never been to bleeding Oblivion!"

"You sure about that?"

"I think I'd remember!" Castorius' eyes blurred, and this time he had to lower his head? between his knees. "Ah! Why do I feel so disoriented?"

"It happens," said the Daedric Prince. "Something about the change in dimensions or some-such. Then, it could also be the drink."

"I haven't had any," Castorius pointed out.

"Ah," Sanguine shrugged. "Guess it's just me, then." And, to emphasize his point, he produced a flask—the same one he'd thrown away back on Nirn, it looked, or at least one that looked exactly alike—and took a long guzzle. He didn't bother to try and offer it to Castorius this time around.

"How do I get out of here?"

If indeed he even _could_ anymore!

"In a hurry to leave already?"

_Yes, why on Nirn would I want to do_ that _?_ "Is it possible?"

"Of course it's possible! Why you're in such a hurry is a different matter."

Castorius shook his head, as if trying to get everything back in its place. It hardly seemed to work. "I didn't think it was possible to cross the barrier anymore. Like, something Martin Septim did to seal the gates?" He'd been told all about it back in school—in fact over and _over_ again—but he'd had more pressing matters on his mind at the time.

"Oh no!" replied Sanguine. "You've got it all wrong. It's not possible to make an _invasion_ from Oblivion anymore; Martin took care of that. Supposedly, at least. But it's still perfectly possible to travel between the planes. After all, how else could I have come to you back in Mundus?"

"Oh."

That obviously made sense.

Sanguine assumed a sly, oblique smile. "I see you're not terribly curious about the relationship of your world and mine."

It hadn't even popped into Castorius' mind. "Well, I don't know—"

Sanguine chuckled softly. "Brother, if I had to explain what I know about it, I've no doubt your brain would implode on itself before I even got to the really juicy bits. And I don't even really understand it, myself. Though you may find that, for a Daedric Prince, I know peculiarly much. Did you know, for example, that you and I are not really talking right now?"

Castorius frowned. "Huh?"

"Well, we _are_ , of course," Sanguine said with a pleased grin. "But only in a manner of speaking."

Castorius let his silent stare work as a prompting for a clarification.

"I can't really explain it, but the only reason we can now communicate—or indeed even _perceive_ each other—is because, despite all our divergences, we share something. There's something in each of us that our minds are able to interpret, and so we are able to interact. But that doesn't mean that the way we see each other is how we actually _are_."

"You're saying you're the product of my own mind?" _If that's the case, there must be something seriously wrong with me._

Sanguine spread his arms. "And you mine!" He chuckled. "Well, no. Not exactly. But close."

Castorius stifled the urge to slap himself again.

"Are you sure we've never met before?" Sanguine asked, narrowing his eyes.

"I'm sure I'd recall." Insufferable fools Castorius never forgot. Supernatural or otherwise.

Sanguine shrugged. "If you say so. Anyway, the bottom line here, my friend, is there's much more to me than your senses can discern. And the same goes for you. You're not able to even understand yourself completely. Do you think all of you is limited to what you can understand? This here time and space?" He shook his head. "Make no mistake, what you are, what you _can_ be, stretches into far many more directions and dimensions than you realize."

"That doesn't—" Castorius started.

"Tell me," interrupted the Daedric Prince. "Why is it that a Daedric Prince is so much more powerful than, say, a regular man on Nirn?"

It seemed obvious enough. "Well," Castorius said, "it's because—" — _i_ _t's because he's a Daedric Prince_. . . But the circular nature of that all too obvious answer no longer felt satisfactory.

"Indeed," Sanguine said, smiling as if he could read the doubts in Castorius' mind. "It is my own theory that it is simply on account that he _believes_ himself so to be. It is this conviction of his, _reality manifested_ , if you will. And because others come to believe it too, it thus becomes shared reality." Sanguine nodded, visibly satisfied by his own exposition.

"I'm not sure that makes . . ." _Why do you keep trying?_ Castorius closed his mouth.

And Sanguine opened his. "There is always much more than meets the eye. So many of your limitations are self-imposed—if you could only fully realize that, there'd hardly be any limit to what you could be. _Who_ you could be."

"Now you're starting to sound like someone else I know. Have you met—"

In the true manner of those enraptured by their own narrative, Sanguine wouldn't stop to listen. "When you _really_ look into the void, into the heart of nothing, you can see how it can be _any_ thing. The limits of reality, of what can be, are highly malleable. Sometimes all it takes is a little . . . _push_ ," he emphasized his words with a thrusting motion, "and the walls between what you took to be the difference between you and me, between here and there, between what's possible and what's impossible, simply give in."

If Castorius had been in a lot of situations lately where he'd been out of things to say, the entire content of his mind felt just about sucked into the void right now. He passingly wondered whether it was possible for Daedric Princes to lose their minds.

If so, here was exhibit A. Probably B and C, too.

"But I'm not really the expert on these things," Sanguine went on. "My area is more," he wiped his hand over the view of the people around the table, "this."

A fight had broken loose, two men drunkenly pounding each other with fists. Some others were yelling at the combatant, abetting one or the other, or simply, it appeared, calling out random remarks. One woman barely staying on her feet stood up on her chair, applauding and giggling uncontrollably. Others were simply content to continue their eating and drinking.

Sanguine chuckled, shook his head lightly "Oh you guys!" He then turned his attention back to Castorius. "If you want answers you should go to Hermaeus Mora, really. Though his answers most likely would end up just raising even more questions. Or perhaps he'd simply smack you in the face with one of those peculiar tentacle-things . . ." He squinted, like in the face of a particularly puzzling conundrum. "I still don't understand what those are supposed to be."

Castorius frowned. "I'm sorry, what are you talking about now?"

"Never mind," replied Sanguine. He smacked his lips. "Well, perhaps since you're in such a hurry, it's better you go. It was nice that you could make it and all, but . . ."

"What about my reward?"

"What reward?"

"My _reward!_ "

Sanguine spread his arms. "I don't really know what it is you want. I've offered you a good time . . ." he gestured at the female creatures who now, in the absence of their host, had started to fondle each other, " . . . but if you're not interested, I don't know what to tell you. Besides, isn't a job well done really its own reward?"

"You're ripping me off!" _I can't believe this!_ _Well, actually . . ._

"I'm not!" Sanguine claimed. "Besides, I get the feeling I _have_ rewarded you."

Castorius pshawed. "You have not! Words of wisdom don't quite cut it!"

Words of lunacy was more like it.

"Careful, now!" Sanguine said with an edge to his voice. "I may be easy-going in general, but even I have my limits."

Castorius merely tossed his arms in disbelief, shaking his head.

"Look," Sanguine said in a conciliatory tone, "if it's really so important to you, let's say you can keep my rose if it turns up. How's that, huh?"

"A rose? What am I, a botanist, now?"

"Like I said before, it's no ordinary rose."

"Whatever," Castorius said, sounding—and feeling—like a let-down child denied a new toy. _So this is the thanks for putting my life at risk to get you your petty revenge. Guess this ought to teach me to do the bidding of your ilk._

Sanguine, apparently intent on making this a friendly departure, laid a comforting hand on Castorius' shoulder. "You may not know it, and even I may not understand it, but I have a feeling you'll get your due reward. I might have even saved your life, for what it's worth."

_For what it's worth?_ "The only way I can think you might have saved my life is at the same instance you put it at risk," Castorius said, but he was running out of zeal. "Ah, what does it matter. Just show me the way out, alright?"

"It's just the same way you came in. Trace back your steps, and the portal should be waiting for you."

"Alright," Castorius muttered. "Thanks. I guess." Without a second glance, he started to walk back towards where he came from.

"Hey, Cas!" Sanguine called one more time. As Castorius turned back to frown at him, he said, "Just remember: the way things seem to be?" he shook his head, "That's seldom how they really are."

As the Daedric Prince clearly had nothing more cogent to say, Castorius waved his hand at the creature, and walked on.

Wherever the world might end up taking him, he prayed to all the gods he'd never believed in that he'd never have to face one of these troublesome and superfluous beings again.

 


	23. A Scarlet Letter

Castorius was in a hurry. And it was all thanks to that giant cosmic nincompoop, Sanguine.

Once he had stepped through the void to return from Oblivion, reasonably expecting to reappear in the dusty cellar of Nightgate Inn, he'd come damn close to crapping himself nearly falling off the mountainside onto which the portal had sporadically decided to relocate itself.

He realized now his mistake all along had been to take anything the erratic Daedric Prince said or did at face value. It wasn't a habit of Castorius' to ask too much of people. Regarding their general quality, he'd always thought himself equipped with a degree of expectation realistic enough to verge on downright cynical. What he hadcome to ask of them, however, was some basic level of reliability, the most diminutive of abilities to at least _try_ and follow through and to live up to their word.

Generally, he'd found he might as well have asked for the moons.

Little surprise, then, that a being the likes of which the world was for the most part unanimously wary of, should turn out every little bit as unreliable as his mundane counterparts.

But it wasn't the inconvenient location of his return that had caused this hurry. It wasn't, after all, as if he'd appeared on the other side of the Empire—in Elsweyr or something—and had even after a brief reorientation figured out that he was still at the Pale. The problem was that even though he'd originally arrived at the Inn a good while before noon, and that the time he'd spent at Misty Grove couldn't have been more than half an hour, the first thing he'd realized after barely stopping himself from flying off the cliff was that the dusk had already descended.

That in itself might have been acceptable in other circumstances. The thing was, though, that the other reason he'd gone to fetch his Imperial attire—besides avoiding embarrassment returning to Dawnstar, and and to get another go at Kirsten—was that he'd had every intention to stay good to his word and to go have a word with Commodore Fair-Shield like he'd promised Roggie. Tell the man to look the other way in case any word of dealings with pirates happened to come to him.

Or, as his instincts screamed at him to do, to warn the man, to tell him to take his family and get as far away from the Pale as possible. Likely it would be wisest for him to flee Skyrim altogether.

It hardly needed emphasizing that Castorius had zero trust in Jaree-Ra's word to start with. But now, in the case that the Argonian had indeed survived the demise of his ship, he had even less reason to doubt the pirate would refrain from taking measures into his own scaly hands.

In any case, Castorius had—after a few moments of fervid planning—decided _not_ to go to the Commodore as one Stormcloak sympathizer to another. He suspected this was a stubborn man, as older military people oft proved to be; and as a stubborn old military man, he might not give the time of day to some low-ranking whippersnapper's warnings.

So Castorius had devised another sort of cover story. He would not, in fact, directly warn the man at all. Instead, what he would do was pretend to be paying the man some sort of "routine" Imperial call, making it appear as fishy as he possibly could. He'd assure to the man—trying to come out totally insincere—that the Empire had no plans whatsoever to go after anyone for supporting rebellious activities. But in the same breath he'd in some roundabout way make it clear that the High King would very soon increase his military presence in the area.

He would somehow need to plant the idea in the Commodore's head that it at any moment the Imperial forces might roll in on the area and persecute anyone it considered to be giving aid to the Stormcloaks. It was Castorius' hope that this would get the Commodore to immediately go to Ulfric in search of protection. He wasn't sure about what might happen then . . .

If he was perfectly honest with himself—though it wasn't something he was particularly fond of—he had to admit to not having given this plan as much thought as he perhaps should have. But time was limited—especially now, thanks the Daedric Buffoon's bungling. So he had to make do.

It was once again time to rely on the two greatest gifts in his possession: his ability to improvise in tough situations, and—of course—that famous Janus Castorius charm.

An uncomfortable burning in his lungs after the fast-paced hike, he arrived at Fair-Shield's house. It was right where his map told him it should be. So at least it seemed Roggie was competent in something, even if he did bear other, obvious, imperfections on his person.

The house resided between Morthal and the seashore where they'd met Captain Malaney, on the Hjaalmarch side of the border between it and the Pale. It was a modestly sized two story log house, sitting at a comfortable distance from the marshes southeast of it, and at an elevation out of reach of the the rotten-egg smell.

The light of Masser, the larger of the two moons hanging above, caught the trees surrounding the house, casting it with scraggly shadows. The shadows danced on the walls and on the ridge of the roof, as the branches swayed in the wind.

Castorius felt a strange relief as he stopped to regard the sight for a minute. It looked very peaceful. He almost could see it, then, the appeal. To just settle down, to build something lasting. To be a part of something bigger than yourself. To maybe leave something behind. Continuation, he supposed, was the thing. He'd never given it much thought before.

What would be left of him, when the time came?

He gave his head a soft shake, mildly amused by this sudden touch of sentimentality. _Don't tell me you're becoming a good man, now._ He shrugged such a thought off.

Having gotten a moment of rest, he felt sufficiently recovered to continue on his mission. He stepped up on the porch, rolled his head and shoulders around to loosen up, and took some quick breaths to steady his nerves. He'd originally intended this visit to happen during the day, but perhaps the late hour would prove to add to the dramatic effect.

"Sir, Imperial business," he practiced quietly. Should he call it _official_ Imperial business?

_Go with the flow!_ He raised his fist to knock. _Alright, time to—_

As his fist contacted the wood, the door creaked ajar. Nothing but darkness leaked out through the narrow opening.

_Oh._

Castorius blinked. No sound from the inside. He poked his head inside, but saw no sign of life. Were they in bed? Or had they left?

After a second of hesitation, Castorius cleared his throat. "Hello?"

There was no reply, and no sound besides the wind in the trees.

Carefully, Castorius opened the door all the way and stepped inside. The floor groaned under his boot, and in the surrounding silence the noise was nearly intolerable.

The downstairs was empty and dark. The moonlight bleeding though the narrow windows was not enough to improve the visibility. Castorius quietly closed the door behind him, and waited for his eyes to adjust. Slowly, the room took on some shape, but he still couldn't make out details.

"Hello?" he tried again, louder this time. Still nothing.

In the corner to his left, he saw a glimmer, like light reflecting off glass. He squinted and saw a lantern sitting on a table there. That could certainly prove useful.

Castorius started walking slowly with light steps, though he figured now there was nobody home. The floor felt sticky under his heel, like it hadn't seen a mop in a good while.

He picked up the lantern; there was a stub of a candle inside. He then felt around the table for flint and tinder, but could not find any. Luckily he always carried some with him. A torch would have been even smarter to have, but there was only so much stuff one could realistically carry.

Getting the lamp lit, he lifted it up above his head to get a better look at the room.

There was nothing there to jump at him: the usual furnishing of your average well-off but not overly affluent person, tables filled with everyday household items, a pair of bookshelves at the back. Some crates and barrels lay around, and hanging from the ceiling around the cold fireplace were onions, garlic, and a few fish.

All in all, the place looked very much lived in; though, based on the fact that it was so cold, no one had been around for at least a day. Castorius' breath came out as vapor in the lantern light.

At the back was a flight of wooden steps leading upstairs. _Might as well check_.

As he started walking, he felt a drop of water on his face. He wiped it off, mildly irritated. _Damn these leaky roofs! Would it kill them to hire a proper—_

He stopped. It wasn't the roof that was above him, but the upstairs to which he was headed.

He looked at the hand he'd used to wipe his face. There was a red streak on it.

As he slowly lifted his gaze to the ceiling above him, he felt a constriction in his throat. There, around the cracks, the planks were stained dark red. It was completely dry, so the one drop of blood on Castorius must have been mixed with the moisture on the surface of the wood.

He looked down. On his feet there was more blood. So that's why the floor had felt sticky. The blood stuck to the soles of his boots as he lifted them, making a squeaking sound. He felt sick to his stomach.

Something else caught his attention then. A couple steps up, half in a pool of dried blood, there was a crumpled-up piece of paper. Castorius numbly picked it up. The paper was stuck together a bit by the gore, but he managed to carefully unfold it.

It was partly obscured by the staining, but the message in the note was simple enough. It said only:

_Take care of 'em all. Captain's orders._

At that moment, Castorius' belly felt as if it were filled with lead. He felt woozy, and his vision blurred. He had to reach out and lean on the fireplace in order not to collapse on the sticky floor. After catching his breath for a couple seconds, he looked again at the letter. The message therein was as brutally simple as the first time.

"Oh gods, please," he whispered.

Castorius looked at the stained ceiling again, then at the stairs. He _could_ just leave . . .

_No!_ He shook his head sharply. _I have to see this through. I have to know._

Taking a slow, tattered breath, Castorius started towards the stairs. His legs were numb, and moved only with the greatest of reluctance. He felt as if he were made wood stalking up the steps, his entire body tensed up. Each excruciatingly slow creaking step felt like a short lifetime, and with each one the chill on his insides felt increasingly solidified. By the time he reached upstairs, he felt more numb than anything.

With a shaking hand, he lifted the lamp up. Everything was more unreal now than ever during his visit in Oblivion. It was a strangely distant feeling, like peering into someone else's nightmare.

Though at first glance, he didn't see anything too horrible. Like the downstairs, the upper floor was only one, large room. There were two small beds at the eastern wall, empty and made neatly. Seeing them like that was almost relieving. Maybe . . .

He closed his eyes, feeling the jab of terror through the gauze of deadened frost. Then he opened them again, and lifted the lantern higher to light up the rest of the room. Still nothing there to cause alarm. Furnished minimally, the hall was mostly in good order, apart for some scattered books on the tables, and a pile of cloth on the middle of the floor. The bed—

Castorius froze.

The bed stood at the northwestern corner of the room. Nothing out of the ordinary about the furniture itself; just your typical wood-framed double bed. But what stopped his blood cold was that there was someone lying on it. Or most likely was, at least; though all he saw was that the blanket was elevated, obviously in the shape of a person.

Biting his teeth together and drawing in a frayed lungful of cold air, he walked to it. Ten hammering heartbeats went with each painstaking footstep. Then, all of a sudden, he was there. Without him making any conscious choice about it, his hand went for the blanket. Tensing his entire body, and holding his breath, he pulled the blanket back in a quick jerking motion.

And there it was. Seeing it was almost anticlimactic.

A man somewhere in his mid-fifties lay supine on the bed, arms slightly spread with palms upwards. His mouth was hanging open, and he had his eyes half closed like he was in trance. But this was no trance. The man's entire body from head to toe was rigid, as if carved out of wood. Around the corners of his mouth, dribbles of blood had crusted on the hairs of his profuse beard. His chest was completely covered in it. Castorius could count up to a dozen stab wounds all over the man's torso, spread out in no particular pattern.

It was obvious he had not had the chance to defend himself, or even raise himself up before meeting his fate.

_Commodore Fair-Shield, I presume._

For what felt like a good part of an hour, Castorius simply stared at the corpse. After all the dread, he felt surprisingly little, now that it was actually there. "Peaceful" was the word he'd often heard people use when describing the dead. The man did not look peaceful. He did not look particularly disturbed, either. He looked dead. And that, it turned out, did not look like much in the end.

Castorius pressed a hand against one of the lacerations, not giving the action much of a thought. The Commodore would not mind, and he could not bring himself to care much about it, either. The blood had mostly dried around the wound, but pressing on it, some fresh blood gashed out of the opening.

He pulled back his hand, stared at it all bloodied for a short moment. He then absentmindedly wiped it on the bedding, like it was just some dirt off the ground. His hand still stayed red, and was left feeling sticky.

_Now, wasn't there something else—_

And just like that, the horror returned, billowing though him as a wave of nausea. The Commodore's family . . .

Slowly, Castorius lifted the lamp, turning toward the pile of cloth he'd all but passed by earlier . He saw it clearly now: the large sheet, as it now reveled itself to be, was also adorned with a giant, red stain.

"Oh, please, no," he mouthed, getting no sound out.

His feet started to take him toward the bundle like they had a mind of their own. The room was completely silent aside from the the buzzing in his ears. He went down on one knee, grabbed the corner of the sheet, and, same as earlier, pulled it off in one swift motion—like a magician revealing that the person he'd just covered with it had disappeared.

But Castorius was no magician. And this was no illusion. And neither was the surge of bile that rushed up into his esophagus when he saw what was underneath.

It was another body curled up on the floor, that of a woman perhaps a decade younger than the Commodore. Though with all the blood having drained from their faces, they both looked oddly ageless. She was down on her knees with her forehead against the floor and arms wrapped up underneath her, like she was protecting something.

And only after the first fraction of a second did he notice that there underneath was yet another person. The cobalt eyes of a small boy not much older than five years of age stared at him from under the dead woman that had doubtless been his mother. The eyes themselves had no life left in them, just the faded yet bewildered stare of someone who scarcely had any understanding of being _in_ the world, let alone the time now having arrived to depart it. Though now there was only the frozen memory of horror left in them, taken over by the glazed indifference of someone whom it no longer concerned.

An even more scattered cluster of stab wounds went across the woman's back. Many of them were deep enough to have gone right though her, and to have dispatched the little boy at the same go. A long secondary smile running from ear to ear underneath her chin had made it sure once and for all no tale of what had gone on would escape her lips. A large red patch formed underneath the bodies, the dried blood he'd seen from downstairs.

He turned his face away. He let the lantern drop, and pressed the hand that had held it to his mouth. He had to breathe deep and slow, trying to keep in what was trying to force its way up his throat. He had an even harder time suffocating the other sort of flow out of his eyes. He closed them and attempted to decide which one in the bundle of feelings bubbling inside him he should most focus on holding down.

Then he heard a noise in the middle of the dead silence, and was startled back onto his feet.

The room was still as empty as ever. There was only his shadow, creeping all across the floor and up the wall, clinging to the ceiling. It was spread as thin as Castorius felt.

_I must have imagined it._

Then there it was again. A faint shuffling sound. His eyes were drawn to a tall cupboard standing against the wall in the middle of the room. More rustling, clearly coming from within.

Castorius looked back, at the two bodies bundled up. _A wife and two children._ Roggie's words playing in his head.

He turned to regard the cupboard, and sighed a tattered sigh. _I don't want to._

He reached for the lantern, and soon his feet were taking him towards the closet. _Oh, please don't let it be—_

What?

He didn't really want there to be anything inside.

Setting the lantern down on the floor, he took the last two steps toward the wardrobe. Slowly, he reached out his hand, laced his fingers around the rings of handles. Five heartbeats.

He yanked the doors open.

A feral scream sent him backwards, dropped him on his behind. He hit the lantern on his way down, knocking it over. There was the chink of breaking glass. Before the light went out, Castorius caught a fleeting sight of a small person inside the closet.

He fumbled for the flint and tinder in his satchel, and fished the candle out of the the broken lantern. Getting it to reignite took him about a hundred years.

When he finally lifted up the candle in front of his face, he half expected to find the closet empty.

But not so. In there, amid the hanging dresses and coats, hunched a child—a little girl a couple of years older than the dead boy. This one was still alive, however. The same cobalt-blue eyes stared at him with animal intensity, wide as saucer-plates. Around her some of the clothes had fallen off the rack, explaining the sounds he'd heard.

The child's long blonde hair was disheveled, matted to frame her blanched features. In the middle of them, the large eyes burned with sheer terror. Castorius could see strength in them, but it was all currently drowned out by fear. Her hair had some blood caked in it, and more of it was on her clothes. It wasn't clear whether it was her own or not. Brown and red streaks ran down her round cheeks, and with her little hands she was squeezing something against her chest. A doll.

Castorius blinked, staring into those frightened eyes, his mouth opening and closing without any content to fill the silence with.

Then, after recovering a little, he reached his hand towards the girl. He tried his best to look reassuring.

"Please," he whispered.

What was _he_ begging to _her_ for?

The girl backed up tighter against the back panel, squeezing the doll closer against her chest.

_I'm not going to hurt you_ , was what he wanted to say, but the words were lost before they reached his lips. Instead, he just had his hand hanging impotently in the air between them. It was shaking.

The girl's eyes then shifted to the hand, and, if possible, went even wider.

At first he didn't understand, but then looked himself. The hand was still covered in blood. The blood of the child's family. Her blood.

"Uh," he said.

He looked up to the the girl, who now stared at his Imperial uniform. "It wasn't . . . " He turned to regard the corpses, then looked back at his hand, then at the little girl. She met his gaze, and for a moment Castorius' eyes were locked on to hers. He nearly shivered at the fury of emotion in them.

"I didn't . . . "

Something else flashed in the blue eyes, then. Something as ancient as the primitive terror, but something much, much stronger.

Hatred.

"I . . ." Castorius tried.

The girl bolted onto her feet. Clothes were sent flying around as she stormed out of the closet.

"Wait!" He said, reaching his hand lamely after the dashing off child.

But she was fast. In a flash, she'd disappeared through the hole on the floor. The sound of her bare feet slapping at the stairs, at the floor downstairs, then the slamming of the door.

Afterwards, it was silent again.

He stared after her, long after she'd gone, his lips still futilely attempting to form words.

". . . Sorry," he mouthed.

He looked on the floor beside his feet. The girl's doll lay there, left behind in all the commotion, like a decoy. He picked it up. It was a cheap, raggedy old thing with buttons for eyes and strands of yellow yarn as hair hanging down to its shoulders. In the middle of its chest there was a patch where someone had fixed up a hole. The mother, perhaps. Or maybe the Commodore himself.

Castorius looked at the girl's dead family once more. There was no patching them up.

"Sorry," he whispered.

There had already been some blood stains on the doll as he'd picked it up, but more had rubbed on from his hand.

"I'm sorry," he told the doll.

He dropped it on the floor, then looked at the empty wardrobe where the child had been just seconds before, at the scattered clothes on the floor, at the candle in his hand with its flickering flame.

A long ragged breath deflating his lungs, he hung his head between his knees. The candle slipped out of his fingers and rolled on the floor. The light died.

Castorius started to shake all over, and couldn't stop. Didn't try.

There in the dark, surrounded by pressing silence and death, he buried his face in his hands and cried.

 


	24. Good Man, Bad Man, Dead Man, Thief

The wind had kept picking up all night. A sleepless night for Castorius.

He'd been wandering aimlessly until the first rays of sun were caught in the thick veil of dark cloud enveloping the sky. None of them reached all the long way to him. Not that he would have noticed if they had.

It didn't matter to him that the woods were teeming with beasts, predators, and bandits. Each of his steps could have very well been his last in this dangerous terrain, in the dead of night. He knew this, but he didn't care. There was an awfully strange quality to what little sound his most primary instincts of survival were still making.

_What does it matter?_

What _did_ any of it matter? This was the world of predators and beasts. Of bandits. Of murderers and monsters. They would get you anyway, in the end. The only way to fight them was to join them. To become them.

Was that what he'd been doing?

Questions, questions, and more questions, doubt and self-accusation. Those had been the only company he'd had in the long hours of the night—the only predators to come after him. In comparison, he would have almost welcomed a set of sharp teeth biting into his leg. An arrow in the back. An axe to the head.

So far, he'd managed to dodge all of those. But to what end? Did his survival entail anything more than the death of someone else? That was certainly how it was starting to look. Did the survival of a little shitweasel like him unavoidably come at the cost of the life of someone innocent? Was that the necessary sacrifice? Was that the great alchemy behind everything, the scheme of things?

With such a price, certainly it would have been better to just die. Better for everyone. Who was there that would even miss him, to hold on to his memory? Who would cry for him?

No one, that's who.

And was that the sort of world he'd been helping to create? If it was with the help of murderers and monsters that Ulfric was to overthrow the Empire, then what next? How was he to ascertain he could keep them reigned in indefinitely?

Gods knew Castorius hardly loved the Empire, but even he had to wonder. At least it kept up law and order to some extent. It may have, gods forbid, even been the only force keeping the beasts out, from keeping the predators from running the whole show.

Or did it?

He was so very tired, more tired that he'd been in his entire life. Only when he stopped moving did he feel the ache all over in his body. Even his bones hurt. Was it simply the exhaustion, or was it the other sort of heavy burden he'd been logging around?

He slumped against a tree and let himself slide down. The hem of his tunic rode up his back, and his bottom was soaked upon hitting the wet ground. He was currently unable to muster any concern for such things.

Sitting down made the traffic in his mind even worse. Rubbing his temples, he tried to bring clarity back into the mix. He wasn't having much success with it, such was his exhaustion. A thought trailed a thought trailing a though, but what resulted made no coherent sense. Just a jumble of one notion feeling more pathetic than the last.

_If only I could get some sleep . . ._

No! He gave his head a violent shake, enough to feel momentarily dizzy. This was no time for sleeping. He had to think!

_Think what?_

He needed to do _something_. For all he know, what had gone on had been all his fault. He didn't know who had given the order to kill Fair-Shield and his family, but he had a nasty suspicion. If that Argonian pirate, Jaree-Ra, had survived the mountain collapsing on his ship, there was no question of who he would hold accountable. He couldn't, of course, have known that Castorius himself survived, but might have simply assumed as much when not finding the body.

He doubted any captain, let alone a _pirate_ captain, would take the destruction of his ship very well.

Jaree-Ra would want revenge. And if he couldn't get to the perpetrator himself, he might deem it sufficient to go for the substitute. Castorius had specifically wanted no one to get hurt, that's why he'd volunteered to reason with the Commodore. Jaree-Ra had obviously understood this, so going ahead with the slaughter of the man and his family might suffice for at least a temporary revenge.

That is, until he could get his hand on the real culprit.

For all Castorius knew, the Argonian might have gone to Captain Malaney himself. Could be the Blood Horkers had put a price on his head. Could be he was a dead man already. All the more reason he should think of something. If he was a goner already, he'd have nothing to lose.

Nothing, that was, other than his soul.

Even though he'd never even believed in a soul. Perhaps he didn't have one.

He might soon find out.

On the other hand, nothing about the murder specifically said it _had_ been Jaree-Ra. It could have just as well been Malaney. All the letter said, was "Captain's orders". Castorius had come across a lot of captains these past couple of days. And if it had been the Argonian trying to get to Castorius, would he not have left some cue for him? To let him know he was alive and looking for blood? He knew Castorius would arrive there eventually, he might have even waited there himself for him. It would have been the perfect trap.

But no one had been there. They'd come, killed the family, and left.

Now that he thought of it, it didn't make much sense. So maybe it hadn't been Jaree-Ra, after all.

Malaney, then.

The mere thought of the repulsive man was enough make him feel sick to his stomach. He'd entertained violent fantasies these past hours, thinking of bashing in Jaree-Ra's skull over and over again. But if the one to blame had been Malaney instead, that would change everything. He entertained no doubts: in real life he could not have even gotten one punch in at Jaree-Ra before the Argonian would have wrung his neck. But with Malaney, it was an altogether different matter. The man scarcely even felt real—how could he be attacked? Not to mention him being surrounded by able-bodied thugs there to protect him.

Castorius was obviously not going to settle this with his fists. But he couldn't just go along as if nothing had happened. That option had vanished the moment he'd found the bodies; the corpse of the woman hunched over to hopelessly protect her dead son, caught in a final, timeless embrace.

And, at the latest, the option had vanished as he'd gazed into those terrified eyes in the wardrobe. The little girl, stained by the blood of her own family . . .

The girl. How had she managed to avoid her fate? Castorius tried to imagine her, hiding in the closet as her parents and baby brother were being murdered. Listening to their cries for mercy, their screams of terror. He thought of her seeing them there, dead and bloodied. Her mother. Father. Baby brother . . .

He couldn't do it. He'd bawled his insides out back at the house, he couldn't go through with it again. That might just mean the end of him.

He'd walked back and forth in the house a while after, trying to decide what to do. Burning the whole thing down had been on the table. Now that he thought back, he should have done it. But he couldn't bring himself to do it, he'd been so numb. So he'd just left. Simply left the dead behind him. Though he felt like he was still carrying them around. Eyes, dead ones, alive ones, looked at him when he closed his own. Their stares. Fearful, hateful, accusing.

Dead.

_Focus!_

Time and time again, Castorius had to rein his mind back in from its melodramatic excursions. He couldn't let himself be absorbed by the abyss, not now. He might never get up again.

_It's hopeless!_ he thought. _What could I possibly do? Where's there for me to go to? Who's there who'd ever—_

He lifted his head. An idea quickly formed. It might be a long shot, but he had nothing to lose.

He would have to try.

Painstakingly, Castorius got back on his feet. A gust of wind nearly dropped him back down, he felt so weak. But he felt a little heartened now. A flicker of hope inside him, he had just enough strength to start walking again. He'd left his horse behind, and though he felt a touch of remorse leaving the animal at the mercy of predators, there was not enough time to go back now.

That, and he never wanted to see that house again. Ever. If he laid his eyes on it again, he swore to any gods listening he'd burn it to the ground.

Castorius hunched his shoulder, pressed his head down against the wind, and walked ahead as fast as he could.

* * *

The High King Torygg was in the habit of spending the time after his forenoon reception until the late afternoon at Castle Dour, in various meetings with official commissioners and representatives of both his own domain and the Empire at large. And, as a man of habit—and of great responsibility—that's where he was now, too.

That left his wife, Elisif the Fair, to hold court at the Blue Palace's throne room. Not that there was really all that much for her to do, for most of the real matters were dealt with by her husband. Mainly it was her job to sit there, to make it seem like the governing body was present and prepared to hear the concerns of its people. That, and, of course, to look good.

The last bit, as it went, came quite naturally to her.

At precisely twelve 'o clock, she would hold an hour-long break, which she usually chose to spend by herself in the bedroom she shared with Torygg. The High King himself, unfortunately, could find no time in his busy schedule to join her.

Well, that was just fine.

The tapping of her boots on the marble floor and the rustling of her dress accompanied her as she entered the bedroom. She gently pushed the doors closed behind her, and leaned her head on her slender hands. Closing her eyes, she let out a tired sigh.

She was every bit as beautiful as Castorius remembered. Apparently three days' time had not changed that.

"Elise," he said quietly, stepping out of the back corner of the room.

The woman started, letting out a little yelp.

"Janus!" she said, after getting a look at him. Her large eyes were wide and her hand pressed against her chest. "What are you doing here? I thought you a thief!"

Elisif was the only person Castorius would ever let call him Janus.

"I'm sorry," he said, "to barge in like this. But I had to speak to you alone."

Elisif's brow knotted up into a disconcerted furrow. "What's this about? We haven't spoken for weeks."

"Not by any choice of mine," Castorius reminded.

Elisif blinked, drew back a hint. "Nor of mine, if that's what you're suggesting." Her eyes flicked back to the door, hesitation flashing on her face.

Castorius had not blamed Elisif for getting Torygg to send him away, though in the back of his mind, he couldn't have helped but wonder. But that didn't matter now.

He frowned, regarding the young woman. Why was she being so jumpy. If was almost as if she was . . . afraid of him?

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Elisif frowned back at him. "What's . . ." her lip curled into a disbelieving scowl, "What do you _think_ is wrong? Janus, you're trespassing in the personal quarters of the High King of Skyrim! Do you realize what a serious offense that is? You could be charged for high treason . . again!"

She lowered her voice to an urgent whisper. "Not to mention what Torygg would do if he caught you here with me. Janus, he'd have you quartered! Then he'd have you sewn back together and quartered again!"

Castorius smiled a small one sided smile. "Elise, you can stop that. I know he's not a cruel man. But I do appreciate your concern." He took a step closer, did his best to assume the carefree bearings of his former, playful self. "I can see you still care for—"

"This is no time for levity!" Elisif interrupted sternly. "What is it that you want?"

Castorius, taken aback by the woman's asperity, lost what little humor there was left in him. He spread out his harms, as in a gesture of surrender. "I just want to talk"

Elisif straightened her posture, and her features hardened. "Speak, then," she said in a chilled voice.

Castorius stepped closer to Elisif, who stood her ground. "There's something very important I need to tell you."

He wondered passingly if he'd ever before spoken to her with such a serious tone. It felt like a violation of the very nature of their interaction.

Elisif's eyes would not soften. "I'm listening."

_I can't do this!_

It felt all wrong talking to her like this. Castorius could not say what he had to say if she was acting as if he was some convicted criminal attempting to plead innocence. "Elisif, please. Don't be so angry."

The woman hesitated. "I'm not _angry_ , Castorius," she said. It sounded so harsh now when she used his family name. "But you're putting me in a very difficult spot. I should be calling the guards . . ."

"But you're not," said Castorius, trying to use the slight opening.

Elisif stiffened up again. "Perhaps I should, though. You _are_ a convicted criminal."

So was that was this was about? "I'm not a bad man, Elisif!" Castorius said.

It was like he was looking to convince himself, more than anything.

The queen hesitated, softened a touch. "I didn't think you _were_. It's just . . ."

Castorius pressed on. "I know what they say of me. And, well, quite frankly a lot if it is true. Most of it, maybe. But I'm not a traitor." If he w _as_ trying to convince himself, he wasn't doing too good a job. He looked at the ground, and sighed. "I _am_ a crook, though. A petty hustler. An _amateur_ hustler."

Roggie's words that had so offended him, rang painfully true in the end.

He picked up his gaze off the floor, looked deep into Elisif's blue eyes, now considerably more amendable. He felt exactly the way he always did when he was doing his honesty act for some woman—all the while lying his arse off.

Yet, it was not what he was doing now.

_They say honesty hurts, but I didn't think they meant_ being _honest._

"And a fool," he completed his list, and lowered his eyes again. It disturbed him to no end that he couldn't shake the feeling that he was putting on a show. _I'm not, am I?_

"Janus," said Elisif quietly after a short silence.

Castorius looked up, hopeful. There was ample uncertainly in the eyes that looked back at him. "Yes?"

"What do you want?"

It was the best he would get, so Castorius stepped right in front of the young woman. "There's something I need from you."

Elisif frowned a little. "I'm not sleeping with you."

"You're . . ." Castorius blinked, then shook his head. "It's not that!"

He grabbed both of her hands in his. She didn't resist, or in fact respond much at all. "This goes beyond mere sex, Elise. I know that's all I seemed to care about before, but this is different." He did his best to lock those eyes into his, just like he used to. "I've made mistakes before, but now, maybe for the first time in my life, I know what I need to do. And it's not just because it feels good, but because I know it's _right_!"

Right then, the last of Elisif's iciness melted away. Her eyes opened wide, like they had all those times Castorius had brought her to climax.

"Oh," she said, looking at him with something like genuine affection, only with some other undecipherable emotion mixed in with it. "Oh, Janus," she said, but not with sort of tone you'd use with a lover. It was more like one of a mother comforting her son who was afraid she'd abandon him.

"I see it now." Elisif gave a little laugh. She looked freely into Castorius' eyes, and smiled an understanding, even a little pitying, smile. Again—a strangely maternal expression. "Look, I know what you must be going through. And while I know that what you're feeling _feels_ like it's love, believe me—it's not. We just had some good times, that's all. But all things come to an end, Janus. You're just confused now. Give it some time, and you will come to see—"

Castorius listened to Elisif talk, his eyes getting wider with incredulity. He interrupted the woman, dropping her hands and putting up his.

"What?" He gave his head rapid shake. "No, no! That's not it! That's not it at all."

Elisif raised her brow, looking unconvinced. "No? Then you tell me what it is?"

Castorius drew a long breath. "Please, just listen. I will explain."

And he told her everything.

Once he was done with his story, Elisif was quiet for a long time. She'd been letting him speak uninterrupted, only stopping to ask a few brief clarifying questions. He'd left some parts out, obviously, like the carnal minutiae of his encounter with Captain Caro, and the whole bit about Sanguine. Elisif did not need to learn those particular details.

"Huh," she said to herself, face contemplative. She'd started pacing back and forth in front of him. "That's quite the story."

She stopped, gave him a sober look. "And quite a lot to ask, to be honest." Before Castorius had a chance to reply, she continued her pacing. "But of course, if what you say is true, I can certainly see the necessity." She stopped again. "Are you sure they were pirates?"

He spread out his arms. "They sure as Oblivion weren't fishermen!"

"Yes, of course," Elisif replied, biting her lower lip. Castorius was suddenly overcome by the desire to kiss her, to grab her into a tight hold. Not let go. Not this time.

He expelled any all such desires. "What I'm telling you is the truth! Every word of it, I swear."

The woman studied his face a long moment. "I believe you," she finally said in a quiet voice.

"You do?"

For a second, it looked as if Elisif was asking herself that question. "Yes," she replied then.

"Then you'll do as I asked?"

Another pause. "I will see what I can do."

If that was the best he was to get, he'd take it. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," said Elisif. "It's not over."

"No," he conceded.

Elisif gave him a look strangely significant in a way he could not interpret. "I could be very dangerous." There was definitely genuine concern behind her words.

Castorius nodded slowly. "I know. But I don't know what else to do."

Elisif in turn was nodding her head in a thoughtful way. "Yeah, I guess you're right." The nodding then turned into shaking. "Oh, Janus! What have you gotten yourself into?"

It was not meant as a real question. She gave Castorius a brief sad look, then walked to the window.

"Tell me about it," he muttered, staring at her back. Elisif had a slighter build than he normally went for, but he would have very much liked to walk up to her right then, to put his arms around her, press his face into her soft, slender neck.

_Maybe—_

The thought was broken off, but not on account of its hopelessly wishful nature. Something else caught his eye.

In the corner, leaning against a heavy wardrobe, was a peculiar object that had somehow escaped his attention until then. He frowned, and walked to it. Elisif did not pay any to him. She looked lost in thought, gazing absentmindedly out the window with the ghost of a frown across her brow. The thing was a long, heavy stick, like a wizard's staff. The only difference was that it was green and shaped like the stem of a flower. A few thick and sharp looking thorns stuck out near the top, and at the end stood an interlocking bundle of pink petals. It looked exactly like a giant rose.

_It's no ordinary rose . . ._

Castorius stared at the thing with his mouth open. Sanguine's rose. So it was actually a staff. He picked it up—surprisingly light. A staff. A weapon of some sort. It all made sense now. Except for—

"Sam," he said to himself, frowning. He then turned to Elisif, who hadn't changed position. "How'd you get this?"

The queen was shaken out of her thoughts. For a second she looked confused, her brow scrunched up like she was trying to figure out what she was supposed to focus on. Then the brows jumped up, as her eyes went to the staff. She did not say anything, however.

She did not have to.

"Sam?" Castorius asked in a half-whisper; as if Elisif had uttered the name, and he could not believe it.

Elisif seemed to be searching for a proper response. "I, uh . . . "

" _Sam?_ " he repeated.

The young woman recovered from her stupefaction. "I'm not accountable to you as to whom I spend my time with. _You_ , of all people."

That stung a little. "Yeah, but . . . Sam?"

"Yes, Sam," replied Elisif sharply. "Sam. You keep saying that. Yes, I, uh, _met_ with him. What of it?"

Her hands went on her hips, and she gave him that look that always made men everywhere want to choose their words very carefully.

Castorius looked away. It was true he was the last man to tell anyone who or what they were allowed to go to bed with.

"And he left this?" he muttered, short for anything more eloquent with which to try to steer the conversation to a safer port.

"Yes, he did," Elisif replied curtly.

"Must have been in a hurry."

Elisif's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

Castorius sighed. He would have to let this go, though he was loathe to do so.

It only occurred to him then: if the rose had been here all along, then what about . . .

Yes, of course. The whole rose thing had just been a ruse to get him to plant the explosive diamond into Jaree-Ra's hands.

Castorius cursed internally. _That unreliable daedric piece of—_

_Oh_.

He raised his gaze to Elisif, herself still regarding him with scornful eyes. "So you didn't . . ." Should he even tell her? "About Sam. You didn't know what he—"

Elisif's eyes went wide then. She sharply raised her finger between them, shutting Castorius up.

"What's that?" she hissed. Her face snapped towards the door. "Do you hear that?"

Castorius listened. There was some muttering from the main hall. Male voices.

Elisif turned her alarmed gaze to him. Her hand went to her mouth. "It's Torygg! He's returned!"

"What?" A jolt of panic went from Castorius' stomach and all the way down to his toes. He felt dizzy. Despite his earlier contention, he could now see himself being pulled apart by strong horses. He looked around, heard the voices coming closer—towards the bedroom. "What will we do? There's no way out!"

The windows, maybe?

"Quickly!" Elisif beckoned him towards the wardrobe. She pulled one of the doors open, and shoved her hand inside it. A second later, there was a scratching sound, and a panel opened up on the wall next to it. A stone door slid aside, revealing a dark staircase leading down. "Hurry, down there!"

Castorius blinked into the darkness. "What's down there?"

"It's an ancient safe passage for whoever inhabits the palace. It will take you out, just for the love of gods, hurry!"

He hesitated. "I can't see anything."

"There's only one way down," Elisif said with an urgent whisper, shoving him in. "You can feel your way, just go!" She put her hand back inside the cupboard, but stopped for a second before pressing the button again.

She regarded Castorius for a mere second or two, shifting her gaze back and forth between his eyes.

For him, the moment seemed to stretch and stretch. He desperately wanted to say something, but could think of nothing.

Then Elsif took him completely off guard. She closed her eyes, and planted a kiss on his lips.

It was by no means the most passionate kiss in history, but he took it with the fervor of a drowning man drawing air into his lungs. He nearly fell forwards when Elisif retreated.

Just like that, it was over. Way too soon.

She pinned him one more time with her pale blue eyes. "I wish never to see you again."

Then she pressed the button, and the panel started to slide between them.

Even before the door had closed all the way, she was gone. Castorius heard her voice by the door. "Oh, Torygg!" she cried. "I think there's been a thief here. Quickly! Let's go downstairs, we might still catch—"

Then it got silent.

And it got dark.

No amount of blinking and waiting around activated Castorius' night vision; he remained blind as a bat. The silence was broken only by faint rustling sounds carrying from down the stairs. Rats, maybe. Perhaps skeevers. Castorius shuddered at either of the prospects.

But he had no other choice. So set his palm against the wall, and carefully dragged his foot across the sandy floor until he felt it give away for the fist step.

The stairs were not all even in size, which he learned after the second time he almost stepped onto nothing. This made the going even slower. It did not help at all that they were also very steep. So steep, in fact, that he had to descend them in an uncomfortable squatting position. At least, after some fifty steps, the steepness eased up a bit, as the stairs started to wind slightly towards the right.

After a time ranging from just a few minutes to an hour, he came to a sudden stop. What had that sound been? Almost like someone screaming. He listened but it did not come again. Only the sound of his heart beating alongside his scratching breath, and the ambiguous scuffle in the dark.

_I'm imagining things!_ he concluded. He ignored the cacophony of myriad voices of panic and terror stirring within him, and continued his slow shuffle. He did try to pick his pace up as much as he could, though, which was not much.

Finally and without warning, he ran into a wall. Walked into it, to be exact.

_About time!_ His sense of time was as useless to him as were his eyes, but he could swear it had taken him at least an hour to find his way down.

Castorius felt around the wall with both hands, but found nothing in the way of an opening mechanism. The passageway had remained narrow the whole way down, and did not expand now, either. It simply ended.

He was already starting to feel some of the internal panic that had been his constant latent companion for the past minutes seep through his mental barriers, when he felt something. It was at the wall opposite to the one he'd been hugging during his descent, located right next to the end wall, just above his head. The link of a pull-chain.

Considerably relieved, he pulled it.

The first rays of light to leak through the crack appearing at the side of the stone door hurt his eyes so much he immediately had to close them. As he opened them up again, he saw nothing but gray. Above, the sky was still engulfed inside the billowing mantle of ash-like silver. Ahead of him was stone: right outside the opening the rocky ground sloped up towards the sky, gentle enough to climb.

Castorius stood in front of the door for a second, re-adjusting his eyes to natural light, when the rock groaned behind him. The door closed up. After the heavy panel had locked back into place, no one could have guessed it had even been there. Castorius ran his hand on the seams, but felt nothing in the way of cracks.

Only then did he realize he still held the staff in his other hand. He'd been aware of it of course, but only vaguely. He'd been carrying it like a grudge you'd had so long you barely even noticed it anymore.

Staring at it now, he did indeed feel the bite of bitterness.

_Sanguine!_ he thought acrimoniously as he started to hike up the slope. _This is all his fault!_

If it hadn't been for the treacherous Daedric Prince and his petty revenge, the Fair-Shields would still be alive. He'd deceived Castorius, led him into believing it was just a simple stakeout mission. He could have just told Castorius to give Jaree-Ra the jewel and then split. What was the point of putting him in danger?

And he could have made sure that the portal would send Castorius back at the same time that he'd left. Even if it hadn't been Jaree-Ra that killed the Commodore's family, there might have still been enough time for him to go warn them.

Sanguine had fooled him with a false promise of reward.

_I guess this is it then,_ he thought, looking at the rose with distaste. " _You can keep it if you find it" . . ._

"If". Probably he'd known he would. Likely it was just another prank. Just so the foul demon could let Castorius know that it had slept with his . . .

_Not mine,_ he interrupted himself—a thought painted with the blue of resignation. Elisif had never been his, not for a minute.

He immediately felt the wind of anger fade out, leaving him dry and deflated.

_No,_ he realized _._ No one at all had forced his hand. There had never been a point at which he couldn't have turned back. He'd only been fooling himself this whole time. Him and his desires. His vanity and pride. His lusts. What was it that Sanguine had said? That his job was doing nothing more than to bring out people's natural tendencies?

What a self-evident fact that was.

_What have I done?_

But there was little virtue in mulling over it now.

He was now standing at the top of the supposed hill. It turned out to be the bottom part of the massive stone structure Solitude stood on. Right above him was the Blue Palace, though he could not see it from where he stood. In front of him there were more rocks, behind which opened up a view of the marshes. A gauze of mist hovered above the smelly waters, and in the distance there was some movement.

Mudcrabs. Nasty things, to be sure, but there would doubtless also be nastier. Things you could not even eat.

Castorius looked back at where the door had been. It was positioned low enough to be safe from any curious eyes. There was a drop at his feet of maybe twenty feet or so; enough sloping there to skid down without too much trouble, but still too steep for anyone to climb up.

Clever design. Royal quality, as it was.

Sliding down off the slab and descending off the rocks altogether, Castorius made his way to the swampy water. His stopped once the ground started to squelch underfoot, stood there a few minutes, just staring at the stagnant pools stretching into the distance. The wind was blowing hard, individual gusts nearly strong enough to upset his balance, but the mists still hung as tight as the stench did.

He looked at the staff once again. It's existence only rubbed his own failure in his face. _A fitting reward._

Probably there was some powerful magical effect contained in the thing, but Castorius could not imagine anything coming from those demonic beings doing any more than creating more trouble.

_It's not worth it._

He grabbed a good hold of the shaft, and wound his arm back. Then, as hard as he could, he threw the arm back out, opening his hand. The staff flew—surprisingly far for all the wind—into the distance, straight like a javelin, and ended up hitting a small patch of grass swimming in the water. A shot he'd never had made if he'd tried it.

For a few seconds the staff stood up on the grass, like the pole of a victory flag. Then, to serve as a more fitting symbol, it slowly started to sink. The whole patch went down with it. For a second, only the rose at the top stood out, and then it also sank out of view.

Castorius stared a while after the thing had disappeared. He was trying to decide what it was that he was feeling.

Not much at all, as it turned out.

"Lovely weather."

He started.

Seemingly from nowhere, a man had appeared by his side, an old geezer dressed in a weather-beaten old overcoat made of deer hide. Deep grooves ran across his ruddy cheeks, like crevices in stone. His pale blue eyes stared at the marshes, a knowing look in them like the man and the waters shared a secret that was going to stay between them.

As the man noticed Castorius' nonplussed stare, he smiled. "I'd get indoors for the remainder of the day, if I were you. There's a storm coming. Could be a big one."

If only that was an option. "Well, you're not me," Castorius replied, more bluntly than he'd intended.

The man did not seem to take it too badly. "Aye," he said contemplatively. "Suppose I'm not." He gave the waters one more look, then back to Castorius, and tipped the hat he was not wearing. "Well, have a good one."

Then he turned around and went where he might have not come from.

"You too," Castorius muttered inaudibly at the retreating man's back. _Where did_ he _come from?_

He rubbed his eyes. He'd have liked to just lie down and sleep. But that wasn't an option either. He had to keep moving. If he as much as sat down, that would be it for him.

Sighing, he started walking toward the road. There was one more thing he needed to do.

* * *

The Stormcloak camp was peaceful, everyone mostly huddled inside the tents. The wind flapped the canvases and shook the poles, but the surrounding rocks and trees created enough shelter to keep them from falling. The couple unfortunate ones keeping watch outside couldn't be bothered to pay much attention to arrivals.

Inside her small personal pavilion—as she was the only female present—Kirsten was sleeping, her back turned towards the entrance. A brazier stood at the foot of her bed, the hiss of the coals mixing with the wind howling outside.

Castorius slowly walked up to her, and gently placed his hand on her slumbering shoulder. He made his voice scarcely louder than a whisper.

"Kirs—"

She snapped around, fast as a Mountain Lion, grabbed him by the collar and shoved that big knife of hers in his face.

Castorius put his hands up as a sign of surrender. He opened his mouth, but his throat was constricted by the pounding beat of his pulse.

Kirsten's eyes were alight with the fury of the freshly awakened. She blinked at Castorius for a moment, trying to decide what it was she was looking at.

"You!" she said then. "What are you doing here? I thought you were a thief!"

"Who's to say I'm not?" Castorius had no emotional connection with the little smile on his lips.

Kirsten didn't seem too infected by it either. Her lip curled. "What do you want?" she hissed.  
She did, at least, let go of Castorius' collar, but kept the knife at the ready.

He decided to start on the diplomatic foot. "Look," he said. "I've gotten a pretty good feeling of what you think of me."

As to exemplify, Kirsten said nothing, just regarded him like he was a particularly large cockroach.

Castorius sighed. "And I know how this must sound, but I need something from you."

Kirsten sniffed. "Again?" She shook her head. "Forget it! Sure, it was alright once. But I've no interest whatsoever in—"

"Not that!" Castorius interrupted. "Why does everyone—" He sighed louder this time. "Look, I don't care how low your opinion is of me. And maybe it's completely warranted. Gods know you seem to have everybody unanimously behind you on it! But this is different."

He tried to grab Kirsten's hand but she pulled it away. "Just _please_ listen!"

For a few seconds, Kirsten just regarded him with a frown of hesitation. She then let out a deep breath, rolling her eyes.

"Alright," she said. "I'm listening. Speak!"

 


	25. Push Comes To Shove

Castorius had no idea what would await him at the shore. Maybe they were already looking for him. Might be he'd be face to face with a bunch on incredulous pirates, staring with their gaps open at the fool who would walk straight into the hands of his killers. That is, until they got over their stupefaction enough to commence the actual killing. They might take their time too, have fun with it.

Could be he was walking right into his death.

_Could be I just don't care anymore._

But, of course, it was a disingenuous sentiment. No matter what changes might have happened within him these past twenty-four hours, some things would always be the same. He would always be a coward. He would always fear dying. Fear pain.

_Maybe I'm becoming two men,_ he speculated. _One afraid of death, one looking for it._

Even if that was the case, the two men he might have become were togetherin this.

He sighed.

He had to press his head down trudging toward the waterline, the wind from the ocean tearing at him from all possible angles, as if looking for a weak spot. As if he had any other kinds left.

But at least there was no rain.

_You just_ had _to go and think that, did you?_

The rowboat rested on the sands, right where it had been the last time, except that the waterline was considerably higher now. Three men stood around it with their shoulders slumped.

One of the men looked up at Castorius approaching. Roggie.

"Castor!" he yelled. "About time! Didn't I tell you the exact time we would be expecting you?"

Radd the Adventurer by his side looked as frivolously upbeat as ever, but Roggie actually sounded a bit irked.

Castorius couldn't have cared less. "You didn't, actually."

"Oh," Roggie said, taken aback. "Well, I should have!" He frowned then, taking a look at his friend. "Divines, man—you look like shit! What have you been up to?"

"Never you mind," replied Castorius curtly. He peered towards the sea but could see nothing but the outline of the Brinerunner. "Everything go as planned, then?"

"Oh yes!" Roggie grinned. "Couldn't have been better. Malaney is very pleased, from what I hear."

Castorius' brow went up. "Is he, now?" _Are you sure he's not waiting for us with his best filleting knives sharpened?_

"Oh, definitely!" Roggie said, and it took a fraction of a second for Castorius to realize he wasn't replying to the question he'd merely thought about. "You've certainly made his day. I believe he's looking to personally thank you."

"Uh huh."

Castorius tried to keep the trepidation from locking him up completely. He gazed at the ominous dark ship bobbing and heaving in the large waves. He did not want to board it. Not one little bit.

"Alright, then," Roggie said, gesturing at the dinghy on the shore with mocking courtliness. "Shall we?"

"Um," Castorius said. He grabbed Roggie's sleeve and pulled the man closer. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" He spoke in a low voice so no one else would hear. "I mean, is our presence really needed here? We've done our part. Maybe we should just let the Horkers take it from here, and go—"

"Oh, Castor!" Roggie interrupted, placing a hand on Castorius' shoulder. "You know we can't leave this half-way. Besides, don't you want to go and collect your reward?"

_No,_ Castorius though. _No, in fact I don't want that at all. "_ Reward?"

Roggie patted his shoulder and laughed. "Well, of course! You're the one who did all the . . . hard work. You've certainly deserved a little bonus."

"I don't know—"

"Don't be so damned humble!" said Roggie, pushing Castorius toward the boat. "It doesn't become you in the least. Come on, don't worry about the waves. You'll get used to them."

He did not get used to them.

Not at least during the ten-to-twenty minutes it took for the man rowing the boat get them to the ship. With the tall waves slamming against them, it seemed a nearly impossible feat. But the knots of muscle covering the pirates' bare torso worked tirelessly, and they did move forwards, if very slowly. With the boat bounding over the rushing waters, Castorius had to hold on to both sides with his knuckles white. And it was an even bigger challenge to keep what little was left in his stomach from hurling out onto his lap.

But in the end, they got there. With both the dinghy and the ship moving, it was hard to grab a hold of the rope ladder slamming against the hull. Radd reached out, grabbed the rope, and climbed up nimbly despite the wind swaying him side to side.

Then it was Castorius' turn. He did not do such an impressive job with it. His foot kept slipping off the wet rungs, and he had to climb very slowly for all the disturbing motion. That, and his muscles were all but completely depleted of strength. He would need rest.

_I may soon get all I need,_ he though sourly, _on my comfy new bed at the bottom of the sea._

Then, once he finally got up on the deck, his heart plunged down to his toes.

Captain Malaney stood there waiting for him, arms crossed over his abdomen and an undecipherable expression sitting on his frayed features. It might have been a grin. Or was it a scowl?

"Oh," Castorius said tentatively. "Hello."

A row of black teeth slowly peeled into view in the middle of the man's dark, scraggly beard. "You!" he barked.

Castorius swallowed. His eyes went to the Captain's cutlass sheathed right the man's right hand.

Malaney then threw his arms open, nearly causing Castorius to jump back into the ocean for safety. He would take his chances with the waves and the sharks.

"My boy!" the man growled, coming toward him. His hands were empty. "Am I glad to see _you_!"

"Uh," Castorius replied.

Malaney grabbed him hard by both shoulders. "Oh yes, indeed!" His dark eyes burned with an intense flame. "Good people are hard to find, but you?" He laughed. "In you, I believe we have a winner!"

Castorius did not know what to say. "Oh?"

"Come on down!" the Captain told him, as if the forceful arm around his neck would have left him with any choice, "we're celebrating."

Despite the cold wind, the deck was full of pirates, shirtless to a man. These were obviously people utterly immune to bad weather. Despite Malaney's contention, though, they did not appear to be particularly celebratory. Merely drunk.

The Captain himself, it seemed, was both. His breath sour with rot and rum, he murmured into Castorius' ear. "I'd kill everyone on this boat if there was enough men like you I could replace them with."

What to say to _that_? "Thanks," Castorius murmured. "I guess."

They stopped at the rear. A fat, red faced pirate was standing there, holding on to the rudder with one hand and a big bottle with another. He glanced at his captain warily, then looked away, trying to make himself as invisible as possible.

"There it is," the Captain said, gesturing at the dark. "Ain't she a beauty?"

It took a while for Castorius to make out the this thing of beauty he was supposed to be looking at, but then he saw the lights.

Out there in the distance was another ship, much larger than the one they were on.

Alessia's Trial. So the odd Nord woman had succeeded.

A little closer, he noticed then, was another ship more in the Brinerunner's own caliber. Another pirate ship.

_Blackbloods! Castorius_ thought with a jolt of alarm, until he remembered their ship being consumed by collapsing rock.

Captain Malaney caught Castorius staring at the wrong ship. "Not that one! That's just the backup crew I brought along. Over there." He pointed again at the Imperial Warship.

"Oh yes," Castorius said nodding. "There it is."

Malaney laughed. "It sure is! Finally I'm going to have the sort of ship in my command I was always _meant_ to have." He tightened the hold of his arm around Castorius' neck. "And it's all thanks to you!"

"Um," Castorius said. "Oh, don't mention it. It was nothing."

"Nothing?" Malaney growled. "The Oblivion you say! Though . . ." He leaned close so that Castorius felt his breath hot in his ear. "I hear you didn't have such a bad time acquiring her? Eh?" He grinned with all his teeth. "Heh, clever plot, that was, I have to say. That Roggvir might just be more useful than I initially thought."

Castorius had already forgotten about the Captain presenting his doubts regarding the Nord. He'd found more pressing things to worry about than the crooked guard's life. It hardly seemed too important now. "If you say so."

The pirate captain drew in a deep breath of the sea air. "Ah, that about puts me in the mood, too. I wouldn't mind _celebrating_ a little, myself. If you know what I mean."

"Not with me, I hope," Castorius muttered.

"Huh?" Malaney turned to him sharply. "Oh, ha! Don't flatter yourself boy! I like my whores hairier than you!"

There was that word again— _whore_.

The Captain let go of Castorius and started walking towards mid-deck, beckoning his new best pal to follow.

Castorius saw no other option but to comply.

"Gentlemen," Malaney addressed his crew, alongside Roggie and Radd the Adventurer.

"Aye, Captain," one of the pirates said. A bit mechanically, Castorius marked.

Another pirate coughed. The same emaciated, pallid one from their earlier visit. His condition seemed not to have improved.

"This is a very important occasion, if I may so boldly attest." Malaney gestured roughly in the direction of Alessia's Trial. "The start of a new era for our crew, as it were."

Castorius eyed the horizon nervously. There wasn't anything there to see. Not yet. _We've got to get out of here. Soon._

The lanky pirate coughed.

"Aye, Captain," said the other.

Everyone else was content with nodding their heads at Captain Malaney's words.

The filthy man gave his audience a sweeping look. "I'm proud to call myself your father."

_You what?_

A couple of the pirates were also glancing at each other at the odd comment. Castorius looked at Roggie who just gave the slightest of shrugs.

"And _as_ your father—"

The small pirate coughed. It was a harsh searing hack that sounded like it was chipping little chunks off his lungs.

Malaney gave him a quick, furious glare. The man just barely managed to bring his wheezing to a stop.

The Captain then regained his earlier pompous composure. "And as your father, I take upon myself the responsibility to better—

The pirate, not able to confine his cough, launched into another fit.

Captain Malaney sprung towards the man. Everyone around him took a quick step back, like out of the way of the sudden attack of some predator. The one the Captain was after didn't have time for such a maneuver. Only his eyes could react, and they went wide.

"Here, let me cure that for ya!" Malaney growled. There was the cutlass in his hand.

The coughing pirate was not coughing then. He stood there with his mouth open until Malaney had taken the couple long strides to reach him. The Captain ran his blade straight through his belly. It went in like a knife into soft butter. The man's eyes flew almost parodically wide, and the muscles of his face went rigid. He looked down at the sword sunken to its hilt into his abdomen, then at the snarling face of his killer. His look in his eyes slowly transferred from stunned disbelief into distant dreaminess.

Malaney pulled out the blade, and the pirate slumped down on the planks.

After a few seconds of examining the result of his deadly bolt, as if making sure the pirate had coughed his last cough, Malaney darted a furious look at the audience around him.

"Weakness!" he spat. "Can't stand the sight of it!"

His eyes burned with an unholy flame. He re-sheathed his weapon without bothering to wipe off the blood from it. The other pirates soon appeared to recover from the unexpected act of carnage, but the visitors were staring at the dying small pirate with muted consternation. Even Radd looked taken aback.

Captain Malaney addressed his cronies, gesturing at the now dead pirate. "Get rid of this, will ya!"

Three of the pirates still alive and kicking grabbed the body of their less fortunate comrade, and tossed it over the side into the scouring waves.

Malaney noticed the looks in the faces of his guests, laughed. "Ah, just business as usual," he said. "I know how this must look to landlobbers like you, but this is the way it works at sea." He waved his hand around, as if to dispel the air of the shock hanging between them. "What is it that they say—you can't make an omelet without fucking some chickens, eh?"

Castorius looked at Roggie. The Nord only met his eye briefly, but it was clear he too was feeling uncomfortable.

Captain Malaney went on to stand at the starboard—or port?—side of the deck, facing the direction of Alessia's Trial in the dark. "Now where was I? Oh yes, a new beginning." He grinned back and pointed his arm toward the Imperial ship. "A glorious start for a—"

An explosion cut him off. A bright flash of light in the distance, and then another one right next to Alessia's Trial. Right _on_ Alessia's Trial.

Malaney whipped around. "What?"

Another boom. A bright flash accompanied by a loud cracking sound lit up the Imperial ship for a second. The ship caught fire.

Cannons. They were blasting from somewhere out at sea—too far to be seen.

"What is this?" Malaney roared.

"Someone's attacking the ship we stole," said one of the underlings gathered by their captain's side.

Malaney turned to shoot the man with an eyeful of wrath. "Really? You _think_!?" He raised his hand as if to slap him, and the poor bastard hunkered down.

The Captain then lowered his hand with a frustrated grunt. He scratched his head, turning his distraught attention back to the sight in the distance.

Another explosion. A clean hit at the bow, and the ship curtsied.

"Fight back!" Malaney screamed pointlessly.

Castorius turned to look at Roggie. The Nord stared at the commotion in the distance with a anxious frown on his brow. His body was tense, like he was preparing to abscond at any moment.

He noticed Castorius, then, met his eyes. He was just about to look away, when he appeared to catch sight of something in his friend. Roggie's eyes bulged, and he cocked his head—like a dread suspicion awoke in him.

Castorius did his best to look innocent. He shrugged and shook his head, like he had no idea why Roggie was looking at him that way. He then switched his attention back to the commotion.

Yet another combustion there. The flames on Alessia's Trial had gotten wider, and the ship was slowly starting to sink. Captain Malaney was staring at it quietly now. If anything, his silence was even more distressful that his rage had been.

The other pirates were also visibly discomfited by their captain's lack of open aggression. Obviously it was not a common occurrence that he went quiet, and even more likely it was a sure sign there's be some serious trouble ahead.

One of the pirates decided to take it upon himself to break the uncomfortable growing silence. "Um, what should we do?"

"Use our own cannons?" Radd the Adventurer suggested.

Captain Malaney snapped around, on his face an expression like he was prepared to eat anyone present alive. "We _have_ no cannons!" he growled. "The only ones are going down with Alessia's Trial!"

Another impact shook the soon to be former Imperial Warship. Then, right after that, another blaze lit up the other pirate ship closer by. Then another. More in the water around it.

_This is a bit more aggressive than I had in mind,_ Castorius though.

He was really starting to feel scared. He would have to get out. _They_ would have to—he still appeared to have some consideration for Roggie, for all the trouble the man had caused him.

Heck, even obnoxious Radd probably did not deserve to die over this.

The sound of explosion close by, and a splash of water.

Castorius felt the drops of water on his face. He suddenly had the feeling he might soon end up soiling himself.

"They're firing at _us_!" someone screamed.

All things considered, it shouldn't have come as such big a surprise. Still, for some reason, even if he'd pretty much expected it, there was something hard to believe in _actual_ cannons shooting _actual_ ammunition at a ship Castorius himself was _actually_ on. Even after everything he'd seen, and after all the close calls he'd had so far, it felt like such an unreal prospect—death, and that it should actually be happening to _him._ Him, of all people!

Captain Malaney stared at the point in water all too close to them where the cannonball had landed.

"Time to go," he said. He then turned to regard the crew with a wild look in his eyes. "Time to fucking _go_!"

His crew just looked at each other, like this "going _"_ thing was a completely novel concept to them.

"Don't just stand there!" Malaney roared. " _Do_ something!"

Prompted by the outburst, the crew members started running here and there, though still with no indication of having any idea of the purpose of all this skittering about.

"Ah, nothing but a punch of cretinous twat-twiddlers the lot 'o ya!" the Captain bellowed at the ineffectual squirreling. "Do I have to draw you a picture? Hoist the anchor! Drop the sails!"

One pirate, Gunnar Castorius believed his name to have been, stopped and looked at his commander like he'd lost his mind. "Captain, the wind is blowing from the sea!"

Malaney gave a big wave of his hand. "Ah, it'll come around!

Castorius' brows shot up. Did the man actually believe himself what he was saying?

It was evident the crew had a similar thought in mind. They stopped running, looking at each other again for some kind of confirmation for what they'd just heard.

Malaney glowered at them with the flame of the deepest depths of the Deadlands burning in his eyes. "Do as I say or suffer the consequences!"

That did it. The crew members started moving again, this time much more purposefully. They went to work on following their captain's commands. Climbing up masts, heaving at ropes.

_What are they doing?_ thought Castorius. _We'll run aground in a matter of seconds!_

Perhaps that wouldn't be such a bad thing, though. He'd get back ashore and get a chance to run away, all without having to get on that rowboat again. He was considering finding some more peaceful place to withdraw to wait for their inevitable shoring, when Captain Malaney's feverish gaze met his. He felt a gripping cold spread from atop his head all the way down to his toes.

Those black eyes. They could _see_ things!

As Castorius was unable to avert his gaze, the eyes of Captain Malaney slowly went wide. His brow wrinkled and his upper lip peeled up to a reveal a predatory snarl.

He took one heavy step in Castorius' direction. "You!"

Castorius swallowed. "Huh?" he squeaked.

Malaney lifted his arm to point a thick finger at him. " _You_!" he repeated.

Castorius tried to back up. "I—"

Another splash right next to the hull was enough to rock the ship. Anyone not already busy following Malaney's commands—namely that meant Roggie and Radd the adventurer—now went down to hug the floor planks. That left only Captain himself and his new soon-to-be former best friend standing. Though, by the looks of it, soon there would be only one; and it wasn't difficult to guess which one that would be.

Captain Malaney, still approaching with menacing slowness, spread his arms with almost a wounded expression on his face. "Why?"

"I, uh. Um, a wh— hmm," stuttered Castorius while backing up.

"I mean, did I not offer you enough in the way of compensation? Was I not fair?"

The direct nature of any given compensation had not been on the table. Castorius briefly considered bringing that up. Not that it would have meant anything.

Malaney shook his head. "What did I do to deserve this . . . this . . . _deception_?"

"Er . . . " _You're a killer. A murderer. A monster. Isn't that enough? What you deserve is to die!_ "I didn't—"

The piercing whistle of Captain Malaney's cutlass swirling out of its scabbard shut Castorius up. The blade was still smudged with blood, and was obviously very sharp. Castorius' eyes fixed on it, on the little light reflected from a nearby lantern dancing on its length as the lamp swerved in the wind.

Then, for a second, the lantern stopped.

It was as if a blanket of silence fell on them all; everything got dead quiet. Even the water seemed to stop moving. The wind had simply died out.

At that moment the sails dropped. Their rustling was the only sound to be heard, everyone present looking around in confusion.

Then the lantern started swaying again. The sails billowed up.

The wind returned, harder than ever, in fact; only this time it was blowing from the direction of the land. The ship turned, started to move north. Towards the ocean.

Captain Malaney laughed, gave the stunned crew a triumphant look "See? I told you it would come around!"

Everyone simply stared at him stupefied. Someone even made a gesture with his hand that looked like some superstitious ward against evil. As if that would help in this case. The general perplexity was cut short as the whole ship jolted. An explosion at the front, where a projectile had hit. A part of the board was chipped off, and some water came in, but the hit didn't seem serious.

Clearly, though, the Company had taken notice of the Brinerunner trying to make a break for it, and they were doing their damnedest to keep that from happening.

"We'll outrun them!" growled the Captain confidently.

Castorius had started to inch his way toward the board, though what his overall plan was, he'd not gotten as far as figuring out. He _would_ take his chances with the ocean.

_How is drowning as far as ways of dying go?_

Captain Malaney, however, soon remembered him. There was amusement in his eyes, as he met Castorius'. "Where are you going? Didn't we have some unfinished business? Ah, yes." He picked up his blade, pointed the sharp end towards Castorius. "I remember now. You were about to explain yourself?"

Was he serious? Now, if ever, was Castorius' change to show what a magnificent liar he was; how there was no situation he could not talk his way out of, not matter how impossible it might have looked.

"Um, er, well. Uh . . ." Castorius said.

Malaney's head went slowly from side to side. "I just can't believe it. My instinct told me I could trust you. I _saw_ it in you. What went wrong?"

He seemed to be asking himself that more than anything.

Something got in the way of Castorius' retreating feet, and he went down on his rear. He grabbed a hold of the sideboard, lifted his other hand up in front of his face in the most feeble attempt at protection.

Captain Malaney stopped right in front of him. He didn't even look mad anymore as he regarded Castorius. Almost . . . sad. He went down on one knee. Castorius couldn't help but to look into those unfathomable black eyes. He felt the cold hand of dread squeezing at his heart in a way the simple fear of death could not fully explain.

"Well," said Malaney after looking futilely for some explanation in Castorius eyes. "Guess it just goes to show that it is as they say: how things seem to be—" he shook his head. "Well, that's seldom—"

"—how they really are," Castorius finished.

Sanguine's parting words.

His jaw dropped. _Sanguine._ The things he'd said . . .

In the deep, bottomless abyss that were Captain Malaney's eyes, he suddenly saw something. No, to say it was something would have been all wrong. What lay in that abyss was Nothingness itself. Lack of anything.

Void.

And through that nothing, it seemed, was that everything came to be. Through it everything was connected. It was all moving. All change. Everything that was. Everything that was not. Everything possible. Impossible. All One. Chaos.

_True_ void.

But that was not all. What had Sanguine said? It suddenly felt awfully important.

What had it been?

Captain Malaney stuck out his lower lip. "Hmph," he said. "Yeah, guess you've heard it too." He shrugged, and took a deep breath. "Oh well." He stood up then, pulled back his blade, the tip pointing at Castorius. "Time to die."

Castorius could not take his eyes away from Malaney's, or do anything else. The Nothingness therein had him caught in its snare. And then, as time seemed to slow down, Malaney's cutlass diving at him, Sanguine's words came pouring back.

" _What you are,"_ he'd said _, "what you can be, stretch into far many more directions and dimensions than you realize"_

Everything connected in the Void.

" _When you really look into the void, into the heart of nothing, you can see how it can be_ any _thing."_

The nothingness _was_ Captain Malaney.

" _. . ._ _the walls between what you took to be the difference between you and me . . ."_

And Castorius, too . . .

" _. . ._ _between here and there, between what's possible and what's impossible . . ."_

Connected.

" . . . _simply give in."_

Mind as the forerunner . . .

" _The limits of reality, of what can be, are highly malleable . . . "_

Although still very very slowly, the tip of the blade was coming ever closer.

" _Sometimes all it takes is a little . . ."_

Castorius' mouth opened. "—push!"

All thought and any sense of deliberation drained into the Nothingness, he simply did what his instinct told him to. He thrust out both of his hands.

The tiniest, most infinitesimal frown had time to form on the assaulting pirate captain's brow.

And then, the impossible happened. Captain Malaney was lifted off his feet. His eyes went wide in amazement and horror, but the next moment he was already flying in a large arc across the air and straight into the ocean.

Castorius, his mouth gaping open all the way down to his lap, stared after the now vanished captain. He then looked at his hands still hanging in the air.

_What . . .?_

Nothing about them looked any different. No glow, nothing . . . magical. Castorius had never caught any of that stuff. Not that he'd ever much tried.

After all, there was no spell for getting down for a lay, or for making everyone look up to you.

_So then what the—_

Behind him, a powerful explosion shaking the whole ship brought Castorius back to here and now.

A direct hit on the stern sent a bunch of timber flying. A piece of debris hit him in the back, though not too hard. From one of the masts, one pirate was knocked off by the shock, just barely managing to grab a hold of a rope to keep from falling all the way down.

A man staggered towards Castorius from the back, the one who'd been holding the rudder. He still was, in a sense, at least a part of it, for in the middle of his chest jutted out a length of wood. The rudder, or what was left of it. The bewilderment of a newly awoken child in his eyes, the man gave Castorius an inquisitive look. Then he gazed down in utter disbelief at the bloodied piece of timber, the tattered shirt all red around it. Something that looked like a fat red snake was coiled around the wood. His own intestine.

The man blinked at Castorius, opening his mouth to say something. The only thing to come out was a gush of blood. The man let out a strange squeak. Then his legs gave in, and he collapsed.

The ship let out a loud groan, as Castorius' stomach heaved. Above him the sails billowed sideways, and the masts creaked like they were about to snap. The wind had turned its direction once more, and the ship was about to do just the same.

Another projectile took off the tip of one of the masts, and a pirate fell screaming down on the planks. Hit took the landing head first, and even in the roaring wind the nauseating crack of his skull giving in was as clear as day.

A surge of freezing cold water over the board at Castorius' side jolted him. He pressed himself tighter against the side, holding on to it with both hands. He then looked to his right, at the other side of the ship. What he saw turned his bowels to water .

It was the land. And it was approaching fast. The wind coming from the ocean again had turned the ship sideways, and was pushing it right at it.

They were going to crash, he realized, within seconds. It wasn't going to be gentle either. The crags on the shore were very sharp and the exact geometric opposite of inviting.

He wouldn't be able to push _this_ away.

Around him, the others had woken up to a similar realization. "We're going to crash!" someone screamed.

"We're going to die!" chimed another, none too helpfully.

Not that Castorius could have denied the incoherent truth in either of those statements, and he sure as Oblivion had no remedy to offer. He could hardly even find it in him to properly judge the stupidity of those few he saw hopelessly searching for safety indoors.

How many times could one man face death in the space of just few days and expect to continue living to tell the tale? What sort of tale would he even tell? And who would believe him?

Once again, this was perhaps neither the time nor the place.

The land was there now.

"We're crashing!" yelled a man on the mast above him. "Hold on—"

And then it was already too late.

The ship listed violently, and then came to an abrupt stop as the waves tossed it onto the crags. The man on the mast was sent flying like a thrown missile, having forgotten to pay heed to his own words. Castorius, of course, had no time to observe this, as he was busy trying to keep from flying off himself.

And he, too, failed. His fingers slipped off the slick, wet side with the jolt from the impact, and he went tumbling down the ship's tilted deck.

The uncontrollable fall ended on the opposite sideboard. Castorius, by some miracle, managed to soften the impact by getting his hands in the way, but the pain was still stunning. Once again, the breath was expelled from his lungs. His flight, however, did not end there, as right after hitting the board he was flung right over it. The final destination of the journey awaited him on the muddy ground of the shore, where he landed on his belly.

He lifted his face off the muck and looked around frantically, trying to make sense of what was happening. He couldn't get a breath in, his body ached and his vision swam. All around him was chaos.

But, amazingly, he was alive! Though unless he could get his body to breathing again, it would be a victory short lived.

There were other survivors as well. Pirates who'd been resourceful enough to properly prepare for the impact were standing around, faces bewildered. One was sitting on a rock, holding his head and rocking back and forth, but most seemed alright enough.

A little further away, a rowboat had shored, and way more people than should fit in it scrambled onto the beach.

At first Castorius couldn't figure out who these pirates were supposed to be—for pirates they clearly were—but then he pieced it together. The other ship, Malaney's back-up crew. These were the survivors from that one.

Slowly, he managed to pull air back into his lungs. He pushed himself up to get on his hands and feet. Everything hurt.

Not exactly the way he'd planned it.

But at least Malaney was gone.

Right?

The shore was swarming with very alarmed looking pirates. Some were pointing toward the sea, eyes wide like there was something there coming at them. This was further confirmed a second later, as a bunch of them took to running inland. Castorius could not see anything for the wreck of Brinehammer blocking his view.

He started, as a pair of feet landed right next to him, splattering mud on his face.

Malaney!

No. He looked up and into the abashed face of Radd the Adventurer looming above him. The man was refreshingly devoid of his usual mirth, looking at Castorius with his brow in a slight frown. He still did appear more inconvenienced and perplexed compared to the terror everyone else seemed to be in.

Speaking of which—all the other pirates were now on the run, headed toward the mountain range. What safety they were hoping to find there, was unclear.

And, sure enough, as Castorius gazed further down to direction where the pirates were running, he saw movement. Lots of movement, as it turned out. Dark figures of people on both horseback and on foot.

Soldiers.

The soldiers, too, took to running. They were coming right at the retreating pirates. The one at the lead, riding a big horse, met with the foremost running pirate.

The gleam of steel in torchlight.

The pirate stopped running then, falling back onto the ground after the soldier on horseback dealt a deadly blow with his sword. The other pirates came to a halt. The soldiers kept coming. They charged.

"Skyrim to the Nords!" Castorius heard the familiar cry,

Stormcloaks. So Kirsten, too, had been true to her word.

The pirates were in a state of shock as the Stormcloaks rolled on them. Then there were screams of both man and beast. The song of steel on flesh. Only after the first shock wave did the pirates not already cut down go for their own weapons and fight back. But, judging by mere numbers alone, there was no two ways how the so-called battle would resolve. It would not take long.

Radd, having also taken in the spectacle, frowned down at Castorius. His lips parted like he had something to say, but soon snapped back shut. He looked into the distance again. Then, still eyes in the commotion, he gave a little nod. His sword swished out of its scabbard.

Radd the Adventurer took one more look at Castorius on the ground. He nodded again, and right after started running towards the battle. Whether he truly intended on participating, and if he actually believed in his chances rather than just deciding to accept his own death as heroically as possible, Castorius would never know. The man got maybe a dozen steps down, took an arrow to the knee, and fell flat on his face in the muck.

_And thus conclude his adventures,_ thought Castorius sourly, though he could not entirely keep away a certain dark amusement.

It wouldn't be long, however, before he might just share the fate of the irksome Nord. It wasn't the custom of charging soldiers to stop and ask questions in the middle of fray, and it would not take them long until they'd be finished with the others and come to him.

Kirsten had told him that he'd better not be around once they charged, and he had not had reason to believe she was exaggerating. Chances were if she herself saw him, she might cut him down just for the heck of it.

For now, though, the Stormcloaks seemed to be busy enough with the pirates, and had not likely even seen Castorius there lying low in the dark. Right ahead of him, alongside the eastern shore of Solitude Bay, the course was clear. If he acted now, he just might be able to run to safety without anyone taking notice.

He scrambled to his feet, and started moving. He went very carefully at first, keeping his head down. Then, when he'd gotten started, he straightened up and ran as fast as his feet could take him.

Feet squelching on the mud and the wind at his back, he ran like Molag Bal himself was behind him. He didn't even dare to look back; a well aimed arrow could cut his flight off at any time, a warhorse run him down. It was only after at least a hundred strides of hotfooting, once he'd gotten out of earshot of the din, that he dared his fist glance back.

A jolt of joy shot through his tired, cold body. There wasn't anyone! Only the barren, wind-whipped coastline, and out there in the distancing horizon, the moving shadows of the Stormcloaks rounding up after finishing with the last of the pirates.

_I made it! I—_

But then he noticed another, smaller shadow, moving at a closer distance. It was moving fast, and it was coming his way. Another person, running. Another survivor, perhaps? He might lead the Stormcloaks to Castorius!

Unless . . .

_Malaney!_ he thought in dismay.

But no, not this time either. This was someone smaller, more nimble.

Without slowing down too much, Castorius tried to determine the identity of the approaching figure. Who ever it was, it was fast! Faster than Castorius, at any rate, and despite his other shortcomings, no one had ever called him slow.

He had to slow down a little more to get a better look, and by that point the figure was close enough to see . . .

Roggie. Coming straight at him.

Castorius couldn't remember ever seeing the Nord run, but obviously he was proficient enough in it. Also unlike him, he seemed to be in the thrall of some very powerful emotion. He was yelling something as he ran. What was it? And was it directed at Castorius?

Then, as he got closer, it became obvious.

"You bastard!" Roggie went. Over and over again.

He definitely seemed a little agitated.

Just to be on the safe side, Castorius decided to pick up his pace a little.

Roggie was still faster, though, and was rapidly gaining on him.

"Bastard!" the Nord screamed, a bit out of breath by the sound of it.

This, however, did not slow him down any. If Castorius had felt like Molag Bal was after him, the Nord gave the impression that the Harvester of Souls himself was what fueled him.

"Bastard!"

"What?" yelled Castorius back.

"'What', you say?" Roggie replied. "' _What_ '!"

_Innocent enough a question_ , Castorius thought. "I had no choice," he wheezed.

"Get back here!" Roggie screamed—though needlessly, it was starting to look; he'd nearly caught up to his target.

Castorius crested a small mound as if was as if it was a massive hill. The run had depleted his legs of strength, his lungs and throat hurt and the sharp pain in his chest was stopping him from getting a good breath in.

And, just as he was starting to contemplate giving up, his legs made the choice for him, tangling up into each other.

Down he went.

After hugging the ground, he quickly got back on his feet, and turned to face his assailant.

Roggie stopped a couple feet away, catching his breath while eyeing Castorius with temporarily muted fury. The Nord's nostrils were fluttering like the air flaps of some Dwarven machinery. It was as if a thousand different castigating words were fighting for a chance to erupt from his mouth, the way his lips twitched. He pointed a furious finger, but still could not get a word out.

Castorius simply waited, leaning on his thighs and struggling feebly to expel the burning needles from his lungs.

"You!" Roggie finally exhumed. "What have you done?"

Castorius' mouth just opened and closed like a drowning fish. _What needed to be done._

Roggie spread his arms. "You've ruined us!"

Us. There was _that_ word again.

The Nord gestured mutely toward where the view of the slaughtering of the remaining pirates was obscured by a shallow hill. He shook his head at Castorius. "Why?"

"Why?" Castorius spat. "Do I have spell it out for you? You were just going to give a free rein to a bunch of murderers! It was the a big mistake we were about to do. One which I had to _un_ do."

"What you've _undone_ ," Roggie fumed, "is your own head. And mine, too! What do you even mean, murderers?"

"What do I—" Castorius threw his arms in the air in frustration. "Killing an entire family! Just slaughtering them in their beds! What do you call _that_?"

"What are you talking about?"

It was plain to see by the confounded expression shoving aside the rage on Roggie's face that he didn't know.

Castorius couldn't even find a proper response. He simply wanted to strangle the Nord just then. How stupid could he be?

As stupid as himself, apparently.

"The Commodore," Castorius said quietly.

"What?"

"The Commodore!" he screamed. "Dead. Alongside with his wife and kids!" Kid, to be exact, but Roggie needn't know it.

Those eyes . . .

"I don't know anything about it!" Roggie cried.

"Well, of course you don't!" hissed Castorius. "That's the whole point. You don't know what you were getting yourself into. I got you out"

The fury had full reign again across the Nord's features. "Oh, you did, did you?" He shook his fist, a gesture which in other circumstances would have been comical. It was pretty ridiculous here, too. "You got me out, alright. Out of this world, once they catch us!"

_Better losing you head than your soul_ , Castorius thought tiredly, and was glad he managed to keep that one inside.

It didn't matter. Roggie revealed his teeth in anger, and groaned. "Bastard," he growled.

Then he suddenly darted at Castorius and threw a punch. It took Castorius in the jaw, though it was so sloppily executed it mostly skimmed the surface of his chin. Still, in combination with his own clumsy attempt at evasion, it was enough to send him back on the ground.

Roggie stood above him, fists balled. It was as if the man didn't really know what to do next.

He was still mad, though. "Get up!" he roared. "Get up and fight me like a—"

Castorius sprang off the ground, lunging on his now former friend. He tackled Roggie, and they both went tumbling down. Even before they hit the ground, Roggie started to beat his fists against Castorius' back.

Once they were down, Castorius got up on his knees and wound his fist back to punch the Nord under him. Roggie shoved a hand on his face, and the fist chopped air. Castorius bared his teeth, and bit the hand.

Roggie cried out, but wasn't left defenseless. He in turn grabbed Castorius' hand and sank his teeth in.

"Ow, fuck!" Castorius yelped, letting go his teeth. Roggie also released his hand from its dental captivity.

Getting back on his feet, Castorius pulled back. He felt his heart beat even faster now, but it wasn't a bad feeling anymore. This was different. He could feel it, the thrill. He felt alive, like a man! Finally he could set things right.

He stood above the panting Nord, hands squeezed tight into fists. "Well?" he prompted. "Are we doing this or what?"

Roggie likely saw the new found fury in his adversary, was intimidated by it, for he didn't make a single gesture to rise. He simply stared up, leaning against his elbows as his eyes went increasingly wide.

_That's right_ , thought Castorius. _You'll do wisely not to—_

Something pressed against the small of his back.

"Alright, now," a lazy voice said. "Put down your 'weapons'." This was accompanied by a chorus of snorts.

Castorius turned slowly, and his heart sank all the way to the bottom. Soldiers. Five of them, wearing red, brown, and silver. Just like him, only . . . clean.

The Empire. It had finally caught up with him.

The one holding the sword against his back circled him, never dropping his blade. He was smirking.

"Just look at you—fighting like a pair of little girls!" He gave his head a rueful shake and the men behind him chuckled. "Can't believe you two got military training. Should just execute you on the spot for the shame you bring to the entire Empire."

This got even bigger laughter. Castorius himself was too spent to feel shame. Or much anything, for that matter, now that the thrill of battle was rapidly leaving him. After all this time, that would be all he'd get.

The soldier motioned with the tip of his blade. "Better put them down now."

His fists. They were still hanging in the air in front of him, thought obviously posing no threat to anyone anymore. If indeed they ever had. Castorius lowered them.

"That's a good lad, now," the soldier said. "Alright, you fellows just come with us and we'll have this all settled."

Roggie on the ground looked deflated. He looked up at Castorius, his earlier rage now boiled down to a defeatist pout. His eyes were sad rather than angry; disappointed. If anything, that was far worse than anger. It made Castorius feel . . . guilty. Like he'd somehow let his friend down. Which he had of course, but now he felt like it was _he_ who'd done something wrong.

Even at this moment, the man could find in himself yet another way to get at him.

Bastard.

"Aww, it's not so bad," taunted the soldier, looking from Roggie to Castorius to Roggie again, a highly entertained smirk on his clean-shaven features. "Cheer up, guys. The jail will be nice and warm. Well, at least a bit warmer than out here. And there's food. So to speak. Plus you'll have _pleeenty_ of time to to talk it out between you."

Again, all the other soldiers were chuckling.

"So just come along." The soldier moved to lift Roggie, who came up reluctantly but willingly. "Might as well stop resisting your fate; make it easier for yourself."

Castorius shared one more look with the sullen Nord. The man regarded him only briefly, let out a soundless, humorless snort, then looked away.

The soldier clapped a hand over Roggie's shoulder. "It's all over."

Too true.

Above them the sky roared.

Rain started pouring down.

 


	26. Last Stop: Square One

Castorius took a deep breath.

He briefly reviewed what his training might've offered in the way of guidance for situations like this, but soon gave that up. After all, that was just a reaction, a conditioned response. Did it not belong to some other man entirely? Someone likely hundreds of years dead. It no longer concerned him, if it truly ever had.

Where was that man now? Where was that disjointed series of images, views, desires, and events he had called his life? The uncontrollable chain of bad decisions that had led him here today?

Had he been sleeping? Had it all been just a dream?

In any case, _this_ wasn't. If he'd been sleeping, he was wide awake now. This was his reality. For better or worse.

Worse, as it would seem.

Here now, at last, he faced his adversary; his judge, his killer. And it wasn't the man sitting the throne in the Blue Palace, the one who called himself the High King. It wasn't the Emperor, nor was it any of those who wrote his laws and kept their letter. It was not even the big, black-skinned man beside Castorius, holding that big old frightening axe.

No, his real judge and executioner was right in front of him. It was the people. The Empire of Tamriel, as they were called. The Empire _was_ the people. How had he not seen it before?

He saw it clearly enough now.

He let his breath flow out, slow and steady. The crowd was slowly starting to look like a full assembly. Faces all around: curious, eager, mirthful, disinterested, sleepy. The plebs, here for a reminder of their own mortality, of their own good fortune. Such as it was. Instinctively, he searched the throng for something to ease his eyes on; soft, beautiful features to bring him comfort, even at the risk of only ending up staring callow cruelty in the face.

Instead his gaze settled upon a robed figure at the front of the audience. The figure tilted back its cowled head, just enough for him to see its eyes. A chilling, malignant stare, making Castorius' heart skip a beat. Sybille Stentor looked straight at him, revealing a mouthful of pearly white teeth. A smile of sorts. She winked at him.

Castorius simply spent a few seconds staring at the eldrich woman, somehow knowing he should feel more terrified, but not really knowing how to. So eventually he simply looked away, continuing to browse through the crowd.

At the back, next to the Inn, the Winking Skeever, stood another cowled figure, this one in worn-out robes. As Castorius studied it, the figure peeled its hood back. A man with neatly combed dark-brown hair and one droopy eye was revealed from underneath. The man lifted his chin in greeting.

Sam Guevenne this time. Not Sanguine.

Sam reached under his robe, and when he brought his hand out there was something in it. It was a staff, which he raised high in the air for Castorius to see. The staff's shaft was green, and at the end of it was the inflorescence of a rose. Thick and sharp-looking thorns grew at the top part of the handle. Castorius stared at the thing numbly. It had caused him so much grief, he should probably be thinking. Might have been the reason he was here now. But he knew that would be a lie.

" _I might have even saved your life . . ."_

For what it was worth.

Sam then put the staff back under his coat and raised his chin again for farewell. He pulled his cowl back on and started walking to his right. Within seconds he'd simply vanished, and though Castorius tried to catch sight of him again, he couldn't.

His eyes caught another familiar figure there, leaning on one of the pillars of the inn with his arms crossed. The saurian features twisted into a sneer in which utter contempt and pure joy over someone else's misfortune mixed perfectly, making them one seamless compound of emotion.

In other words, Jaree-Ra did not look too friendly.

Castorius stared at the Argonian with the same deadened detachedness he had at Sanguine's "rose". The pirate lifted one scaly hand and drew it horizontally across his throat. He completed the gesture with a gleeful grin. But it did not matter to Castorius in the least, so he just looked away.

Seizing to scope the crowd, he then looked around him instead. Ahtar to his right, with the axe, met his gaze. Not much emotion in those dark eyes. As usual, what he might have felt or thought was anybody's guess. He gave Castorius a small, near imperceptible nod, and Castorius returned it. Captain Aldis, standing in rigid pose behind the headsman, took notice of this minor exchange and, judging by the frown across his brow, did not much care for it. He looked from Castorius to Ahtar and then, as the large Redguard did nothing to acknowledge him, back to Castorius. When he got no reaction from the prisoner either, he simply faced ahead, muscles clenching underneath his dark beard.

Indifferent, Castorius slid his gaze from the guard captain to another Nord, this one standing at the right side of the scaffold and facing the center. A sullen man with his hands behind his back, staring at the ground in front of him.

Roggie.

There were dark circles underneath the man's eyes, and an altogether gauntness to his whole being. Yet there was something else, too. A sort of peacefulness that had not been there before. As Castorius regarded the man, Roggie finally lifted his gaze to meet his. For a few utterly silent seconds, they stared at each other over the execution block. Roggie's eyes then flashed from the block to Ahtar, to Aldis, and then back again. An emotion ignited in his blue eyes, one Castorius knew already. There was a pleading look in them.

He nodded at the Nord, keeping his face impassive. A sense of relief was plain to read in Roggie's visage, and he mouthed a word. "Thanks," most likely.

Then the steel shield of one of the Imperial guards caught a ray of the early morning sun, and the beam was reflected in Roggie's face. He took one hand from behind his back to shield his eyes, the talisman—the amulet of Talos, which he now kept in plain sight—swinging around his neck.

Castorius looked away.

Yeah, he'd made a promise. And he intended to keep it. After all: why not? He had nothing left to gain, and only his soul to lose.

Such as it was.

" _Please, Castorius!_ " The words of Roggie—or Roggvir, as he said he'd now rather be called—still fresh in his mind. The desperation in those eyes as they'd regarded each other through the bars of the cell under Castle Dour. One of them on the outside, the other in.

Roggie— _Roggvir,_ had explained how he'd managed to convince them of his innocence. Used the whole might of his clever mind to assure them it had been his plan all along. That Castorius, the crooked and corrupt Imperial soldier, had approached him while they'd both been on an espionage mission pretending to work for Ulfric, and tried to convince him to join him in the business he was doing with pirate cut-throats. That Roggvir had done what he thought he'd have to in order to not only bring Castorius to justice, but to stop Ulfric's plan to acquire a fleet and at the same time bring down a pirate gang.

" _I led them to believe_ ," he'd confided to Castorius, " _that the moment you came to me, I realized I couldn't go to the High King before I had more information—before I' d ascertained the whereabouts of the pirates so that the Company could take them out_."

Castorius could not believe they'd swallowed the story. But so they had seemed to. Had treated Roggvir as a regular hero, they had; even offered him a promotion to Captain—which our modest hero had then declined. Told them he'd like nothing better than to continue as a humble servant of His Majesty.

And they'd believed _that_ too.

So it really seemed like the man was able to slither away from this. There was just one thing that could bring down all of his plans. And that that thing was, of course, Castorius.

" _Please!_ " Roggvir had pleaded. " _Don't say anything. They'd only execute us both_."

" _Why should only I lose my head over this_?" Castorius had asked.

Even at the moment he'd not been able to invest much zeal in the question. After all, why _should_ they both have to die?

" _Something's different now_ ," the Nord had continued. " _I've changed. Remember when you asked me if I believed in anything?_ " He'd pulled the amulet out of his shirt then. " _Well, I think I may just believe in something again_." There had been absolutely no dishonesty in those eyes. " _That ship, I could have died on it. Should have, perhaps. But I didn't. It's a miracle of some sort_."

As he'd spoken, he'd fiddled the amulet between his fingers. So suppose he now thought it was Talos himself who'd saved his life. As a kind of thanks for wearing his lucky charm around his neck.

Castorius had said nothing to that.

Then Roggvir leaned closer, looking around, and whispering, " _Despite everything, I'm starting to think Ulfric may be right!_ "

That had been all he'd said about the subject, but in his eyes Castorius had been able to read more. This may no longer have been a man who put his own self-interest above everything, but neither was he someone who obediently served his emperor, either. The dawning light of fanaticism—that was what Castorius thought he could read in that bright stare. If obsessive self-love was a kind of sickness of the mind, this was one of the other kinds.

The events in the Pale had apparently given Ulfric a good scare. It had been nigh that his troops had clashed with the Imperials, which would have certainly sent rolling a series of uncontrollable events. Such an unfortunate chain reaction would have been slated to ignite a civil war. So, daunted by the uncontrolled circumstances, he'd recalled all his forces in the area, dismantled any military camps around the holds sympathetic to him, and retreated to Windhelm, the city wherein he ruled as Jarl. Roggvir had managed to be in contact with him, and apparently convince him of his innocence and loyalty as well. It had taken Ulfric a while to accept that Castorius could have so quickly devised a plot of his own, but he had, according to Roggvir, then conceded that he was ready to believe almost anything about the wily Imperials.

How his old friend had managed to get all this information already, Castorius would never know.

According to Roggvir, Torygg had been pleased to hear about Ulfric's change of note. He'd taken it as an encouraging sign that the man was indeed getting ready to be reined in. He'd seemed convinced that the Stormcloak was now regretting harboring any rebellious sentiments, and would soon come to the High King in person to admit as much. But looking at Roggie's eyes, listening to the tone of his voice as he was telling him all this, Castorius had had to wonder. It didn't seem to him that it was over at all. Far from it.

And Roggvir, for one, had clearly decided his allegiances.

But what did that matter, either?

" _And another thing_ ," the Nord had gone on, changing the subject. " _I've been getting closer with my sister again. We've sort of been at odds with with each other for a few years now, but now it's gotten better. And what's more, it's gotten me into closer contact with my niece Svari—a delightful little girl! Wouldn't you know it, she's always thought fondly of me, even if I haven't really been there for her_. " The man's smile had lacked all calculation and cynicism. " _Can you believe that?_ Me _? I've never been responsible for anyone but myself, but now it almost feels like I am. I'm sure she'd be sad if I went away now. She likes me, Janus. Likes me for who I am. Do you know what that's like? To be looked up to by someone?_ "

Castorius had stared at his old friend in silence, then admitted quietly, " _No, I don't suppose I do_."

" _Please!_ " Roggvir had repeated. " _I have something to fight for now!_ "

Castorius did not. Not then. Not now. Not ever.

So he'd agreed.

Roggvir had been nearly in tears then, thanking him so ardently he'd ultimately had to tell the man to _just please stop_. Roggvir had promised, assured, and vouched—sworn the most solemn of vows—that he would put in the good word for Castorius. He'd use whatever leverage he now had over the High King to have him pardoned, or in the least kept from execution.

Well, so much for that, it seemed.

For if he'd been pardoned, if his execution had been called off, the word hadn't traveled here. Things were rigged up and ready for his head to roll, no room for doubt about it. And it wasn't likely the crowd would take kindly to another let-down, either. For all he knew, they'd climb up and take care of it themselves if they had to.

Tiring of the sight of the blood-hungry press, Castorius closed his eyes. In a way they _were_ going to pardon him: pardon him from the life long sentence that was his existence. And while in the past he would have been amused by such a pathetic sentiment resembling the moodiest of school-boy poetry, things were different now. But it wasn't that he was depressed; nothing like that. In fact, he didn't remember feeling lighter in a long, long time. If ever.

But the lightness he experienced was something less than a feeling. And that was just the thing: he didn't really feel anything at all. There didn't seem to be much point to it anymore.

For he had seen it.

Whatever _it_ might have been. But it had been there when he'd looked into the eyes of Captain Malaney. All he could think of in trying to describe it was "Absolute Darkness". Yet, at the same time, it had been perpetual change; constantly shifting and oscillating in a way that it never became anything. Complete Nothingness. He'd somehow been able to use it, to defeat Malaney with it. But he'd managed that only once, only when he'd been in direct contact with it. Afterwards, he couldn't even say what it had been he'd done at all. He'd never done the simplest of magic, had always assumed himself to be one of those individuals who lacked the ability.

Perhaps he was. Perhaps it had been something else entirely.

What was more, in addition to the darkness he'd seen something else, if only through just the briefest of glimpses. So brief, in fact, that it had taken a few days to for it to really sink in that he'd seen anything at all. But somewhere behind the Deep Darkness there had been its opposite. Completely different in nature but just as unfathomable, if not more so. Absolute Light. Total stillness. The utter lack of existence. It had been completely devoid of any change, any movement; nothing coming, nothing going. Perfection—static, dead. If anything, it was even more terrifying.

Of course, he realized words such as "light" and "dark _"_ were mere metaphors for something which escaped definition. Approximations, presenting the matter in the only way his mind could conceive it. But he knew that what he'd seen had been real. More real than anything he'd seen before.

Somewhere between the two extremes, then, between the Absolute Light and the Absolute Dark, had been this world, the Mundus—his world, the one he knew. Had thought he'd known, anyway. It was neither of the two, but contained something of each. Balanced between the two kinds of Nothings, it itself was . . . _something_. Maybe.

In any case, it was where he was. This was Nirn, a blaring and chaotic arena for the millions of little plays of drama and conflict taking place on it day by day. Ambition, jealousy, conquest, war, love; intertwined and entangled into each other, weaving this mesh of contradiction and ambivalence, constantly teetering at the brink of dissolution, at the edge of Oblivion. Everyone toiling tirelessly over this worthy goal or that, all with the same desire: to convince themselves and each other it was all real. That _they_ were all real. That any of it mattered, if only for a split second.

Castorius, of course, had been one of them, as deluded as any, if not more so. But that was all in the past. What did it concern him anymore? At any rate, it wouldn't much longer. It already didn't. He was done with it, had seen through it and found it profoundly empty, nothing in it really worth adhering to. The axe might as well have already dropped on him. Perhaps it had.

For though he could not tell what it was he'd seen looking into the otherworldly pirate's bottomless dark pits of eyes, he knew one would not be able to see it and continue unchanged. Nothing had felt the same since. In fact, nothing had felt like much at all—scary, interesting, or arousing. Everything felt more or less equal: life, death . . . what was the difference? But it wasn't a feeling of despair or abjection. Rather, there was strange sort of joy in it. Like all the things he used to fear and all the things he'd been so hung up on attaining, none of it had the same power over him anymore. He felt almost unfettered.

Almost.

He drew another long breath, then let it flow out slowly and freely. There was no longer any trepidation left in him. He was calm.

_Might as well get on with it._

Captain Aldis, now standing at the front of the scaffold, cleared his throat. "Prisoner, step up," he said, his voice loud and clear.

The prisoner opened his eyes. The people were watching. Waiting. Anticipating. Thirsty for blood. His blood.

_Let them get what they want. Let's make them happy._

For what it was worth.

He looked at them one and all, searched their eyes; saw their faces, scowling, grinning, timid, impassive, tense. Their desires. Their will. Their world. The brittle order of their little lives, the hopes and dreams that ran them. Their fears. Their whole pathetic little reality. They were all in this together, for all their separateness, united. One of mind. Of One Mind. The light and the dark, balanced.

For now.

He looked and saw it all. And he smiled at them. There was no malice in the gesture, no anger. He was beyond all that now, it seemed. Seeing it, some of the people frowned. But most did not even notice.

He then did as told and stepped forward.

The morning had broken sunny and clear, and looked to be turning out exactly the way he liked them. A clear sky loomed above, and the balmy wind tousled his curly, flaxen hair. He would have likely chosen different conditions for the start of his day, if he'd been free to choose them. If he could have bent reality to his will.

He wasn't. And he couldn't. There was no more use in pretending, no reason to fight it.

Just a regular mortal, after all.

The sun beamed down, indifferent. Shining down on the just and the wicked alike. Just as it always had. Just as it always would.

Castorius closed his eyes.

_Yup,_ he thought.

It was just another one of those days.

* * *

**So there we have it. Thanks for reading! More stories on the way.**

 


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